


Mountebank

by Odamaki



Series: The Sherlexicon [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Case, Confessions, Crack, Dancing, Everyone Is Gay, Fake Dating, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Get stuck in my hot manhole, House Party, Idiots in Love, It's For a Case, Jealous John, John Watson and Feelings, M/M, Original Character(s), Sex Positive, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Suits, The Butler Did It, The Swiss save the day, Trapped, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Tropes, UST, Very jealous John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am calm,” John snaps, leaning on the door to glare out at the dark streets around them. </p><p>Sherlock’s not said where they’re going; all he knows is they came off the ring road to the west of London and have vanished somewhere into the depths of Berkshire. All he knows is that he’s been trussed up in a suit that wasn’t hired from anywhere and if brought new would edge up into the triple figure margins. </p><p>“Be calmer,” Sherlock advises, with a trace of irony. “We’re going to a party.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mountebank

**Author's Note:**

  * For [codenamelazarus (foxieswirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=codenamelazarus+%28foxieswirl%29).



**37: Mountebanks**

John has never felt more uncomfortable in his life. The inside of the borrowed car is unspeakably luxurious; all walnut dashboard and plump, heated leather seating. It’s got just enough of that gorgeous new-car smell about it to appeal to his inner Top Gear appreciator, but not so much as to be cloying. The thought of the cost, however, makes him feel ill at ease.

He shifts against the seatbelt, pawing at his collar, which is starched and tight and snowy white against his throat.

“Stop that,” Sherlock tells him, serene at the wheel. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” John snaps, leaning on the door to glare out at the dark streets around them. Sherlock’s not said where they’re going; all he knows is they came off the ring road to the west of London and have vanished somewhere into the depths of Berkshire. All he knows is that he’s been trussed up in a suit that wasn’t hired from anywhere and if brought new would edge up into the triple figure margins.

“Be calmer,” Sherlock advises, with a trace of irony. “We’re going to a party.”

“No, really? Dressed like this?” John indicates the shiny Oxfords, white bow-tie and nipped waist of his tailcoat. “Are we in costume? Are we putting on the Ritz?”

Sherlock looks at him sidelong, his profile an oddly coloured gleam in the scant reflection of the headlights. “No,” he says, “It’s just that sort of place.”

He looks ahead at the road, ribboned with cats-eyes that slip into vision just a few hundred metres ahead and fade behind them just as quickly. “Though if you want to be trite, ‘the fashion fits’.”

John’s brow oscillates up and down in a frown. “Was that a compliment?”

Sherlock just gives a vague hum, perhaps a touch regretting his comment. The car purrs on.

There are lights ahead. They flash in and out of view from behind a hill or a copse or a garden, John can’t quite see in the dark properly, and then they’re passing through a set of high gates, spear-topped and electrically-controlled from some distant location. “So far so good,” Sherlock mutters. “Look in my wallet; there’s a fake ID for you.”

“For me?” John digs it out, puzzled. It’s a driver’s licence- the photo is his albeit subtly altered. The date of birth is likewise similar yet inaccurate and the name is totally off.

“James Sigerson?”

“Mr. James Sigerson; graduated from Said Business, been overseas more or less ever since as acquisitions-director of a small but successful medical-grade plastics company. Sufficiently boring so that nobody asks about it. I work in oil; we met in Scandinavia where I happened to be researching in the same town you were trying to source a new manufacturer.”

“Jesus. And you are who- Bertie Wooster?”

Sherlock shows his teeth in a grin. “Scott,” he says simply. “Emphatically not ‘Scotty’.”

“Scott,” John tries it out, disconcerted. “Not sure it suits you.” At least it has a few similar sounds with Sherlock; hopefully he won’t forget it. The road becomes brighter with little toad-stool shaped lamps planted alternately with white-painted rocks to show where the edge of the drive is and John cranes his neck to look at the house.

It’s big; hotel sized nearly, with lights on in every room across the frontage and fairy lights around the door. It screams wealth. The building is creamy, Millionaire’s white, but otherwise not overly decorated. Modern, rather than old-fashioned flaunting. Sherlock brings the car to a smooth halt before the steps and a man in a smart jacket detaches himself from the shadows to open the door for John. Taken aback, John stumbles out onto the gravel in a rather ungainly fashion, leaving Sherlock to ease from the sports car, blithely dropping his keys into the palm of the man’s hand.

“It’s simple,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s ear as they climb the steps, John dry-mouthed with apprehension. “I was invited, you’re here with me. If anything happens, just don’t react unless I signal you to.”

“Right,” John says, “And we’re here to…?”

“Catch the murderer, save the day,” Sherlock tells him. His hand brushes the middle of John’s back as he strides in front of him a pace, leading the way and reaching up to adjust his own collar; Sherlock Holmes on the case.

“Of course,” John mutters to himself, eyeing the blaze of the hallway. “Stupid question.”

___  
___

It’s a party. It’s a really posh, ‘nice’ party. There’s unobtrusive music and unobtrusive staff. Sherlock lifts a pair of crystal flutes from a tray when it’s offered to him and presses one into John’s hand. The contents fizz and glitter pale gold, with a slightly woody smell.

“I thought we were working,” John says, under his breath.

“This is good champagne, have one,” Sherlock is nonplussed, tipping the stem up for a sip. “Though do go steady, James.”

“Thank you, Scott,” John says with sarcasm, but he tastes it before he makes his mind up. “Hm. That is good.”

They drift from room to room, from one soft carpet to another, over marble and polished wood. Sherlock pretends to be mooching, yet John can see his mind at brisk work, absorbing details of the layout, the people, the rooms and resources. Gathering data as fast as he can. John for his part makes a note of the exits, the entrances, fire alarms and cameras. Blind spots and telephones. He’s got his mobile and a slim, small gun that feels like a toy but will still injure, tucked into the pockets in his tails.

He notes that for a party on such a scale, it seems very relaxed. They spot other male guests scattered here and here, although John makes the assumption that the bulk of them must be outside somewhere; now and then he hears the pop of fireworks.

“We’re a touch late- traffic,” Sherlock informs him. “We’ll go out and find our host in a minute or two.”

“Yeah,” John says glancing around. He spots a dining table set up; it’s long and stately. Enough to sit at least thirty people, maybe more. “Right. Um… who is our host?”

“Roderick Carlton,” Sherlock says, “Owns a disgustingly large stake in a disgustingly large number of rare-earth mines. Eccentric, has dabbled in scientology, but mostly keeps himself to himself asides from these soirees for his gentleman’s club’s benefit. That’s him there, on the left.”

Sherlock indicates over his glass to a photograph on a side table of some corporate event or other. John inspects it. It shows a middle-aged man, not ugly but not striking; trim and healthy-looking with a thick crop of foxy-coloured hair turning to silver at the temples.

“Like Mycroft but skinnier, better at business and more social, then,” John says. On first appearances, he doesn’t seem like much of a suspect. He looks almost likeable. Sherlock looks appalled at John’s comment. “Not remotely,” he says, with something like a shudder.

“Is he…?” John gives a little whistle.

“Hmm,” Sherlock demurs. “Let’s go meet him.”

They find the man amid a group on the lawn, past a patio lit with candles and on which jasmine trails, scenting the night. The men are hard to see, their black jackets blending with the darkness and rendering them silhouettes against the flare of the fireworks, until they turn in conversation and their weskits show white and ghostly.

“Roderick,” Sherlock all but purrs, intruding with all the grace he can muster. “Apologies for my lateness.”

The man turns to address him, his expression one of polite surprise. “Hello? Who’s this so late?”

“Scott,” Sherlock replies.

“Traffic,” John blurts, feeling unusually nervous. “He couldn’t find his shoes and then you know how it is on the ring road at rush hour.”

This is taken with a slightly forced smile and Sherlock, taking advantage of the dark, treads on his foot warningly. A reminder. ‘Don’t react’. John composes himself and firmly keeps his mouth shut.

“Scott,” Sherlock repeats, passing his ID over. “I trust you got the e-mail?”

“Scott?” Carlton hesitates and then his face clears. “Ah, from Michael’s office! Scott, it’s wonderful to see you at last. I’m so glad you could make it. How are the London lot?”

“Doing well, and the pleasure’s all mine. Carlton, allow me to introduce James. I mentioned he was joining me this evening.”

It feels strange being called by someone else’s first name. John has an instinct to look around for Sholto. “Hello.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Carlton holds out a hand to John and his handshake is warm and firm. “I understand this is your first time at an event like this. How are you finding it?”

John glances around the garden at the soft lights and the flare of roman candles. He has the taste of champagne on his tongue and he’s dressed to the nines and bemused. “It’s remarkable,” he says candidly. Carlton chuckles.

“We’ll try not to let you get out of your depth, at any rate.”

“Thanks?”

Sherlock leans into him and John clears his throat. “It’s a privilege to be here,” John amends.

Carlton laughs again, good-humouredly. Perhaps a little drunk. “Not at all.” He turns his head briefly as a waiter steps up to mutter something into his ear. “Ah, dinner. Gentlemen, let’s go in.”

They tread up the lawn back towards the patio, John hanging back a little as the rest of the group pass him. Sherlock falls into pace at his side.

“Sherlock, I can’t help but notice something,” John says, sotto voce. Sherlock seems to be aware of exactly what it is he’s noticed, and deflects. “We’ll probably be sat apart at dinner; make small talk but try to focus the conversation on whoever you’re sat next to. Find out as much as you can.”

“I can’t help but notice,” John continues doggedly, “That there aren’t any women here.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, pursing his lips. “Well. You know. I did say; Gentleman’s club. Ladies aren’t allowed.”

“Even at the parties?” John says doubtfully, his suspicions growing. “That’s a bit…”

He interrupted by a call from the front of the group. Carlton waves his arm and the group is gathering. “Straws, gents.” Carlton says, holding up a fistful. Sherlock presses his glass into John’s hand.

“Ah yes, hold that for me.”

“What?”

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock says in a tone meant to pacify but which only makes John more unsettled than ever. He trusts Sherlock though, and remains where he’s told to, watching as about half the men detach and go up and cluster around Carlton, plucking something from his fist and then comparing the results. John frowns. This whole situation is getting thicker by the minute.

A hand plucks at his elbow. “First time?”

“What?” John says, startled. The speaker is a young man, student age even, dark hair slicked back fashionably, suit impeccable. He’s clean shaven to a fault, and light on his feet.

“Albert,” he introduces himself.

“Is it?”

The other looks a touch offended. “Unless you can say Chun Jung properly,” he offers, and John has to hastily repent.

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. My Grandad was named Albert,” he invents, which he isn’t sure really helps with the offence. Albert sees fit to gloss over his faux pas with significantly more grace than John has thus far shown.

“Must be your first time. It can be a little overwhelming.”

“Um, yes,” John admits, then belatedly remembers Sherlock’s instructions. “I’m a little-“ he gestures with the glasses. “Empty stomach, I drink a bit too fast. We were late. So you’ve been to this before? You know a lot of people here?”

“Mm,” Albert nods, “I came with Miles.” He indicates one of the straw men by John can’t quite make out which. “Don’t worry,” he adds, “You’ll have a chance to mingle after dinner.”

“Anyone I should look out for?” John asks.

Albert laughs at that. “Well, I had a lot of fun with Eric Wyndham last year,” he says cryptically, and then nods towards the group. “They’ve finished. Please excuse me.” He nods to John and then ambles off, presumably to join Miles again, whoever he is.

“Oh, right.” John says, feeling stupid. He shifts up the lawn just as Sherlock melts out of the crowd, sauntering down to meet him.

“What was that about,” John demands to know as soon as Sherlock retrieves his glass. The man looks pleased with himself.

“Just a little business before entertainment,” he says, twirling the straw over his knuckles. It has a number 2 written on it. “A spot of trade.” John frowns.

“Is this…” he glances around and grabs Sherlock’s elbow to make him look at him when he mouths ‘drugs’ at him. Sherlock looks affronted for a moment and then shakes his head. “No.”

John is relieved but still lost. “What then?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock tells him. John grabs his elbow.

“No, we don’t do this. We don’t go into situations on cases where you know everything and I don’t, remember?”

Sherlock pauses. “I can’t,” he says, relenting. “Please just trust me when I say it’s insignificant enough now to be harmless and I will tell you as soon as the coffee after dinner is over. I’ll tell you when the drinks come out.”

John looks at him, expression still clouded with doubt. “As soon as possible,” he warns. “I want to know.”

Sherlock steps close, leaning down to speak hastily into his ear.

“One of the men here is a serial strangler. I don’t believe he’s going to be stupid enough to attempt anything tonight but most of these men are hard to get hold of. Deliberately so. Independently wealthy, reclusive and who frequently vanish into their elected sphere’s of influence. This club is the only tie to the killings and this single annual event the only place all the potential suspects come together.”

John swallows, the side of his face warm from Sherlock’s breath. He nods in acknowledgment and then steps back as someone approaches them.

“Everything alright?” Carlton asks. He’s holding a fresh glass of champagne. “Ready for eats?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. John feels him mouth something over the top of his head and then has to try not to squirm when Sherlock places his hand on his jacket, right over where his gun is hidden.  
Right. He’s armed. He can take on a bunch of toffs and oddballs, no problem.

Carlton gives them both a shrewd look. “Come and have a drink,” he suggests. “They’re popping the corks on the whites now. Do you know your wines, James?”

“Some of them,” John says, hedging his bets. “There’s red and there’s white ones.”

He can almost _feel_ Sherlock’s disapproval, but Carlton laughs. “There’s rosé as well, if you’re feeling daring,” he adds and then excuses himself to attend to his other guests.

___  
___

Dinner begins smoothly. John finds himself diagonal-but-two-down from Sherlock. Close enough to be able to see him except that there’s a bloody great centrepiece in the middle of the table obscuring his view. He catches glimpses now and then. Sherlock appears to be chatting up a storm.

Faking it.

John downs his first glass and strives to do likewise.

He’s sat between and opposite men. The one to his left, he learns, is Douglas Reeve, a lawyer specialising in international trade law, a profession which he makes sound just as dull and unglamorous as John’s fake one peddling catheter tubing. He’s a tall man, with fluttering hands and a sort of nervous, excited air about him. Although he doesn’t speak much, when he does speak, he speaks firmly. ‘Energetic,’ John decides, ‘Clever.’

The man opposite is the ‘fun’ Eric Wyndham. American-born, British raised, he strikes John as weirdly familiar until he learns that he’s ex-airforce. Military then, and with a boyish streak of dirty humour that simply reminds John of a number of past friends. “I work in corporate training now; y’know those team days with speakers and bonding activities- I run all of that kind of thing,” he tells them, gesturing with his fork carelessly. “And I’m good at it; especially the bonding.”

He gives a mock leer. Douglas purses his lips. Eric grins. “The trick is,” he continues, conspiratorially, “To use really strong glue.” Douglas sighs.

“I knew you had some terrible pun, I could see it coming.” He laments.

John nods in lieu of a laugh, mouth full. The man on his right, however, gives a throaty little chuckle. “Sounds like a very solvent business,” he quips. John nearly chokes on his potato. Eric guffaws.

The man on the right is a suave sort of character. John’s as groomed as he ever has been in his life and yet he feels shabby next to him. He’s good-looking, and knows it, and more at ease in formal dress than possibly anyone else at the table. The white however, in John’s opinion, doesn’t suit him. It’s too stark against the warmth of his skin. He’d look better in colour.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” John says, setting his knife and fork aside from his starter.

“Joseph,” the other replies, looking him up and down. “Never Joe. Nice suit.”

“Yes, thought I’d go for something that’d make me… stand out in the crowd,” John replies, feeling a bit flustered. The man reaches out and touches his lapel briefly. “Vintage,” he comments. “I happen to be a tailor.”

“Joseph runs Tailor Maid,” Douglas comments from John’s left, his tone condescending. “He does bespoke for women.”

“I also run a gentlemen’s outfitters, also very bespoke,” Joseph replies, mild as a knife. “By all means, you should come and be fitted properly some time.”

The atmosphere is awkward. Douglas sniffs and turns back to his plate. John’s neither sure what just happened or that such things happen at all. Eric raises his eyebrows at John. ‘Bitch!’ he mouths with gossipy delight, when neither Joseph nor Douglas is looking.

John has no idea how to respond. He lowers his head and starts on his fish course instead, wishing he knew what Sherlock was up to.

The wine flows, the food doesn’t stop coming, and the tension gradually eases. Douglas turns his back nearly on John as a means of turning his back on Joseph and spends the remainder of the meal in conversation with the banker on his other side. John swims through a fillet of buttery sole in a beurre blanc sauce so smooth it could seduce a nun, with earthy chanterelle mushrooms and a vegetable he can’t even name. The entree is venison which is so tender John barely has to chew, served with a red wine that tastes of cracked pepper. He forgets to talk in favour of eating, and only belatedly remembers to eaves drop.

The men are drunk enough to be bantering over old business exploits and travels. Eric’s been to all six continents and attempted to climb Everest.

Joseph talks of Milan and the changes in event hosting these days, they talk about food and Carlton’s wine cellar. John sucks paté from his lettuce leaves and crunches mange tout peas. Over the cheese the conversation turns to politics of Europe. No one is forward enough to present any particularly strong political leaning but they discuss the E.U., the pound and whether or not Britain should stay in with mainland Europe or not. Eric is for it, Joseph tentatively against. John makes vague comments because he can’t decide where James should put his money and keeps to himself over the Provolone.

They cap the whole meal off with a bombastic conversation on classical music, poached pears and macaroons. John licks sugar from his fingers and pitches in more readily, drawing on gained knowledge thanks to living with Sherlock. Eric proves himself ignorant of anything other than the big-name composers, Joseph something of a connoisseur. John bridges the gap, along with the man next to Eric on the other side, an older gentleman and amateur flautist with connections in Vienna.

The conversation slows as they pick at fresh fruit that they’re not hungry for, and sip the digestif liqueurs. John doesn’t like his and leaves it virtually untouched. He has no watch on and there’s no clock on the wall, but he can only assume they’ve been sat there for the best part of three hours. He’s relaxed at least, and on the correct side of drunk. Eric is giggly and Joseph has achieved something of a flush. The room feels buoyant with a sense of fun.

Presently Carlton taps his glass at the head of the table and calls them all to order.

It’s time for coffee.

John all but oozes out of his chair, comfortably full, and looks around to try and catch up with Sherlock. He spots him with the leaders of the group, ambling away into the adjoining lounge, arm in arm with some other man and engrossed in conversation. John’s mood drops a fraction.

“Come on, James,” Eric says, idly tossing his napkin at him. “Fun’s just starting.”

“Right,” says John, licking his lips. “Fun.”

Whatever that meant.  
—  
—

They reconvene in a generously sized living room, wood fire burning in the grate. The lights are low and the seating plush. John feels like he’s slipped back in time. Some of the men smoke, parked by small tables at the open windows, Sherlock amongst them. John sends him meaningful looks with a lot of eyebrow but Sherlock only nods and holds up a finger.

John must wait.

John sighs, and then someone gives him a very good glass of port which provides a little boost. He sips it slowly, allowing himself to melt into the background of the room. His dining companions have separated out; Douglas and his banker friend talking over cards at one small table, shuffling them with professional flair.

He spots Albert and Miles settled together on a love seat, Miles with legs outstretched and looking like he’s overdone dinner somewhat. Albert is still alert, exchanging business cards with another man perched incongruously on the ottoman next to him.

As Albert had promised, it’s a mingle. John finds himself drawn into a conversation and more names thrown at him, which are getting tricky to remember. There’s a Harry and a Henry and a George at least, and a Tarquin, which John knows he probably won’t forget because it’s such a bloody stupid name.

John Jameses as best as he can, wishing Sherlock would hurry it up and come talk to him. As it is, Sherlock’s now crossed paths with Joseph and Eric and doesn’t seem in a rush to excuse himself. Fed up, John takes himself off to the loos and catches a couple of minutes of peace. Part of him’s wishing the murderer would just kill someone; he’s getting frankly bored.

‘More drinks,’ John thinks when he returns, looking yet again for Sherlock. One of the staff has brought in a large bowl, as if for a goldfish and set it on the coffee table before withdrawing. In fact, all the staff withdraw, John notices, leaving them to fend for themselves.

‘So this is it,’ he thinks, leaning against a sofa. ‘It’s just a silly, rich Old-Boys club. Getting drunk and daft. Probably some kind of hazing.’

He ponders the goldfish bowl. ‘Cocktails,’ he realises. Of course. And cards, hence all the little tables. He’s the new one here, or one of them at least. There’s going to be some sort of ridiculous upper-class hazing; mystery ingredients in the bowl, a show of bravery downing the resulting mess. Then probably gambling. John’s interests perk a bit and then he catches Sherlock’s eye, which reminds him not to react too openly.

‘Play nice,’ John tells himself, ‘You’re Tim, nice but dim.’ Or James, more accurately.

“Cards in, lads,” Carlton says quietly, tapping his glass again. He has a stack of envelopes on the table. The conversation barely dims, in fact it seems to bubble up louder than ever, and the people to mill about more. John watches as some of the men retrieve an envelope, pop something into it and drop it into the goldfish bowl.

John finds Albert nearby again.

“Hey, sorry, excuse me-“ he says. Albert looks over. “Oh, James. We’re going to collect keys.”

“Keys?”

“For the rooms?” Albert says expectantly. John’s brain ticks over hurriedly. He’s been drinking, Sherlock’s been drinking, it’s obvious neither of them are driving home tonight. “Right, of course,” he says, setting his glass down. “Um… should I?” He gestures towards the bowl. Albert laughs. “No, no, your first time here, remember. It’s all sorted for you.”

‘Membership cards?’ John thinks and then glances at Douglas and his decks of cards. ‘Or credit cards.’ Maybe it’s higher stakes than he thought it would be. God, maybe that’s why Sherlock’s been playing coy with the info. John shoots the back of Sherlock’s head a look. ‘You better not leave yourself broke,’ he tries to tell him telepathically.

He follows Albert and another group of men into the hall, where they wait. They don’t seem to be in any particular rush; half of them still have drinks in hand and chit-chat convivially.

“How does Scott know Michael?” Albert asks him. John stares at him and then faintly recalls Carlton mentioning something about a Michael.

“I’m not sure,” he says, which is true. “Probably something through work.”

Albert nods. “I met Miles through Michael; one of these events actually. It was in Italy last time; we stayed in a rather nice lodge- do you ski?”

“No,” John says. He pauses. “Are we doing any sport here?”

Albert laughs. “No, I don’t think so! There’s a pool somewhere though, if you’re in any state to want to swim tomorrow.”

“Mr. Tsai, your key. Mr. Sigerson, your key.”

John startles. The man in the white jacket is the same one he saw managing the cars earlier. He presses a key into John’s hand. John looks down at it, trying not to seem surprised. The man departs, distributing his remaining keys and then exiting through the front door.

“205? That’s the second floor. I’m in 302,” Albert comments. “I think I’ll go up ahead. Have a good night, James.”

“Yeah, you too,” John replies, absently. He folds the key inside his palm and straightens up. He needs to find Sherlock and get the answers he’s owed. He returns to the lounge but it’s empty. So is the goldfish bowl. John hesitates, looking around. The playing cards are left scattered on the table, glasses left half-drunk. There’s not a soul in sight.

He stands for a few moments waiting, but when no one reappears, he returns to the hall. This too is now deserted. Cautiously, and with no idea what else to do, he climbs the stairs.

—  
—

Room 205 is at the end of a landing that is hotel bare, and hotel luxurious. All the doors are the same deep dark brown, the carpet a swathe of peacock blue. John fits the key in the lock and it turns smoothly, opening out into a comfortable looking bedroom.

The lamps have been lit for him, and the sheets turned down. John expects that if he peers into the ensuite, he’ll find the toilet paper folded into a triangle on the end. Even more strangely, his own overnight bag is sat on one side of the bed. John crosses over to it, unzipping it and staring inside. It’s labelled with the name James Sigerson, and although it’s unmistakably his bag, it’s got James Sigerson’s things in it. Or rather, things posing as James Sigerson’s things. The underwear is his own, the shirts are not. The toothbrush is John’s, the dressing gown and coordinating pyjama’s aren’t. John feels through the bag, and it’s only as he’s moving to investigate the on-suite that he notices the second bag.

It’s been left on the window-seat, and John doesn’t recognise it. It’s a nice bag, he thinks, approaching it. Expensive looking. He wonders if it’s Sherlock’s, and if so, what it’s doing in his room. “Oh he hasn’t…” John mutters, with a suspicion. He unzips it only to further confuse himself. He lifts out a shirt. It’s purple, but it’s not Sherlock’s usual plum coloured thing, not to mention it’s patterned and about twice the size.

“What…?” John starts and then a quiet noise makes him turn. Sherlock’s finally caught up to him, slightly out of breath and John’s alarmed to see that his face has gone pale.

“No one’s come up here?” Sherlock demands without preamble. John puzzles at him. “What?”

“No one?” Sherlock repeats, looking around the room. He stares at bag with it’s outsized purple shirt and baulks. John frowns, lowering the shirt.

“Sherlock, what have you done?”

Sherlock looks close to swearing. He glances down the hallway, which remains empty. “You have to know the odds were incredibly stacked in my favour, John, plus I was cheating-“

“What. Have you. Done?”

“I may have- Well. It’s honestly not as bad as it seems.”

“Sherlock!” John hisses between his teeth. He drags him into the room out of sight of anyone entering the hall and puts the door to. “Tell me. Right. Now.”

Sherlock squirms on the spot uncomfortably and then confesses. “I put your name in the bowl.”

“What?” John stares at him, trying to make sense of the statement and then all at once it does, with horrible, cold clarity. “Oh my God, it’s a sex thing.”

“Just keep calm.”

“Oh my God! God. God!” John is reeling. “Jeeeeesus Christ oh my God!”

“It’s ok, you can just say no when he gets to the room-”

“It’s not ok! It’s not! You’ve brought me- this is _gay swinging_ , Sherlock!”

“Shhh!” Sherlock says, pushing him further into the room away from the door.

“I am an idiot,” John says in complete disbelief, floundering at the idea. It makes such sense. The ‘first time’ comments, the introduction as Sherlock’s ‘partner’, the straws and the cards and- “For Christ’s s-! This is _bad_ , Sherlock, this is just bad. What am I supposed to do? There’s a man coming up to my bedroom expecting me to…. _do things to him_.”

“Well, he might just want to strangle you?” Sherlock offers, which brings John within a hair trigger of punching him and marching out the door into the wilds of Berkshire and sod everything.

“ _Why_ did you put my name in?!” John wants to know. “My fake name.”

“I put your card in last and rigged it so I could just draw it straight back out again. It was actually very clever- I had an invisible thread attached to the card, which looped over the side of the bowl to the edge of the table, so I could just follow it down into the bowl and pull your name out. Then we’d have been free to go over the house. It’s all relatively anonymous, so no one would have realised I’d cheated until morning and then it’d be too late to claim it wasn’t just coincide-“ He’s cut short by John’s fingers squeezing his jaw hard.

“Why, _Scott_. Not how. Why.”

“I drew the second straw, that meant I had all but first dibs on the cards. If I’d drawn lower I was going to drop my name in…”

John drops his hand. “You are inconceivably stupid, do you know that? Do you bloody well understand that?” He’s exhausted. Another thought crossed his mind. “And they think we’re a couple. Shit, they think we’re a couple.” Sherlock looks faintly annoyed.

“Yeeeesss…It's only for two nights?”

John all but has a silent apoplexy. In lieu of punching him, he jabs Sherlock in the ribs. “Two!? Two!? I will kill you myself.”

“I’ll fix this,” Sherlock promises. “But for now we _both_ need to continue to play along.”

John fumes, unwilling until Sherlock lays both hands on his shoulders.

“If he tries anything on your honour, you can always just knock him out,” he suggests. John almost laughs despite his anger. “I’ll knock you out,” he grouses. “What about you?” he adds, realising that Sherlock must have had to draw someone else’s name. It presents him with a whole host of new embarrassments and concerns. “What are you going to do?”

Sherlock pauses to think about it. “Mickey in the nightcap?”

John opens his mouth to protest, closes it again and then goes with the more practical question. “Do you even have anything on you?”

“Someone here must have something.”

“That is not a plan!”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock says blasé, “I’ll use the get-out clause.” Then an expression crosses his face that douses some of John’s anger.

John can’t say he’s happy about any of this, least of all the commotion he’s going to have to go through tonight. However he knows that sudden, still expression of Sherlock’s all too well now. Before he might have missed it but years with the man has finally given him some insight.

“What’s your room number?”

Sherlock pulls the key from his pocket and shows him. “301.”

“Then you’re just upstairs. I’ll come get you.” John closes his eyes and heaves a sigh of resignation. It’s not like he can get out of this any other way, except perhaps by high-tailing it down the drive into the middle of the night. He considers. “I’m the ‘new’ one here. We’ll tell them… I’m not ready for this kind of thing. You’re my partner, right? Then you’d better bloody well be my only partner.” He prods Sherlock in chest for emphasis, and Sherlock swallows.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Of course. Very well.”

John grits his teeth. “Go upstairs then. Stall. I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

It’s only after Sherlock has left that it dawns on him that Sherlock might have been to one of these events before. “Jesus,” John breathes, stunned by the idea. “What the hell have you gotten us into this time?”

He takes a seat on the bed and waits to see who it is that he has to disappoint.

___  
___

Sherlock’s plan, finalised on the stairs up to the third floor, is simple. Rather than get into a confrontation, he’ll simply dive in, extract the vital things from his bag and leave the rest as a decoy. With any luck the poor rube will assume he’s taking his sweet time to get to the room and by the time he thinks to go looking for him, if he ever does, Sherlock will be vanished off somewhere only to emerge ‘hungover’ first thing in the morning after a night of solitary overindulgence. Meanwhile he can catch John in the hall and get on with more important things.

Thank you, ‘Headless Nun’.

It’s not until he gets to the door itself that he has pause to reconsider this plan. Inwardly he curses. Someone’s scuffed the pile by the door, having entered. He’s got company.

He’d turn around and go back and abscond with John for the less than elegant Plan C, but he has a hunch the man would go for a rummage through his stuff looking for an identity to put to the absent body, and the last thing he needs is anyone discovering his lock picks. It would be hard to reinterpret as anything other than highly suspicious.

Sherlock steels himself and enters the room.

___  
___

John spends a few minutes waiting, seated on the end of the bed. He wants to be pacing, but he makes himself sit instead, hands clasped. It feels weird. It feels, if he’s honest, a little thrilling too. He’s never liked waiting for action, but the moments of anticipation right before something happens make him prickle all over. He’s not even sure if it’s a negative feeling or not.

He tries to pick some words for James to use; he figures he should go for something relatively neutral. Something calm but firm with no space for misinterpretation. A standard ‘I’m sorry, but…’ of some sort.

He’s just about got his excuse phrased out when he hears the soft tread of someone outside the door. It wasn’t closed fully when Sherlock left and a hand slides through the narrow gap, the fingers waggling playfully. John stands automatically. He forgets to unclench his fists.

“Sorry to keep you waiting; I was freshening up downstairs,” a voice says.

John says nothing, unsure. He doesn’t want to have to launch into his spiel through the door, with the guy still in the hall. It might well be effective, but he can see how it might also lead to loud knocking and arguments.

“Yeah, come inside a moment,” John says. James can stand to be professional about this, even if John would like the door left open for an easy escape.

Eric oozes around the door with over-exaggerated sexiness that John might find genuinely funny if he weren’t on the verge of pouring unexpected cold water over the situation.

“You ready for me?” Eric asks, looking him up and down. He says it as a flirt but after a second, his face shows a little genuine doubt.

“Well- about that,” John says, “Um.” His polite phrases have all skipped his mind. Eric takes a step closer, about to push the door shut.

“Ah, no, hang on,” John says, backing up and holding a hand out. “Let’s just talk about this a moment.”

“Anything you wanna do, I’m up for it. Just say the word, handsome.”

“How about no?” John asks, stumbling against the bed slightly. He’s flustered. It’s not something he’s used to, being on the pursued end of the arrangement. It happens, but not quite like this. For one thing, he’s usually jumping at it.

“Listen, I’m sure you’re nice, but I’m, aha ha no, stop there.”

Eric stops, taking his hands back from where he’d been about to catch John’s waist. He looks at John and something seems to click in his head. He puts both hands on his hips and looks amused.

“Ohhhh, so someone needs ‘convincing’, do they?”

“What?” John shuffles hastily, trying to put the corner of the bed between them. This is far harder than John anticipated. He’s so busy keeping an eye on Eric though, who is looking eager, that he catches his heel on the leg of the bed and sits down. “No, I don’t need convincing, I-yip-!”

It’s too late. Eric, too wound up to hear otherwise, has absorbed as much as ‘I don’t need convincing’ and taken it as permission. He comes at John, roughly crotch first, and tries to sit on his lap.

John punches him.

It’s not a strong punch but Eric’s not expecting it and it topples him off balance. He rolls straight onto his back, defensively, trying to get his heels under him, his arms up to protect his face from any further attack.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you!?” Eric howls.

“I said ‘no’!” John argues.

“I thought you were playing- ow! What did you have to hit me for?”

“You wouldn’t bloody stop. I said stop! I’m not into this!”

“This? This?” Eric’s confusion turns to hurt and he gestures to himself, “ _Me_? What’s wrong with me?” He splutters, genuinely offended. “Like I’m sorry, but what? Holy shit, do you mean because I’m black?”

“What?!” John is flummoxed by the way Eric is taking this. “No- no! NO! Black is fine; I have nothing against black. Black men. People! Anyone! I’m not- Look. No. That’s not what I meant. I just meant I’m not into this. This. This you and me and hello, I don’t know who you are but lets sodding _swap_ partners- THIS!”

Eric goggles at him for a moment and then throws his hands up into the air in disbelief. “Well if you’re not into this, what are you fucking _doing_ here?”

“I’m here because Sher- SHIT! Because _Scott_. _SCOTT- asked me to come_!” John explodes. Eric stares at him, his eyes even wider.

“Jesus! Jesus, really?” His whole demeanour changes to one of question and concern. He cocks his head at John in disbelief, hands held up to pacify him. “That is prime fucked-up. You’ve gotta tell him. _Oh my Goooood_ , he’s with someone else.” Eric takes a half second to pick his jaw up off the floor. “Are you ok with that?”

“No, I’m not ok with that!” John blurts because it feels honest and he has nothing else to fall back on at this moment. Eric startles and makes a move like he’s about to catch John, or touch him at least. John waves a hand to hold him off. Eric leaps back.

“Ok, ok! Not touching you but- shiiiiiiiit. Oh shit, I’m sorry, James. Fuck, you’d better sit down. Have a drink. I don’t even know what to say. I could…” Eric grasps for some course of action to comfort the apparently love-wounded James. “I dunno…call you a cab or something?”

John sits, his energy fading to a slough of intense embarrassment. He takes the offered glass and feels both angry and upset that Eric is taking this so kindly. Eric throws something- brandy, John thinks- into the glass and then with a glance at the label slugs straight from the bottle himself . He hovers over John, still full of concern and gossip.

“Fuck, you know, it’s none of my business, but I would dump his ass. Seriously, that’s just- What a Grade-A bastard.”

“It’s not like we discussed this that much,” John says, gulping at the alcohol without tasting it. It’s a bad idea to be drinking but frankly, he thinks he’s earned it. Eric is appalled.

“That’s worse! Oh, I’m telling Carlton. This just really isn’t fair. I mean, it’s not fucking fair on me either. I’ve been waiting ages for thi- oh say, do you hear that?”

John lifts his head from his hands. There’s a thump coming from the corridor, like a fight. “Oh fuck.” Sherlock. He was meant to be rescuing him. “Shit!” He drops the glass, which spills all over the carpet, and launches himself at the door, Eric hurrying on his heels.

There’s a kerfuffle going on down the stairs, Sherlock at the head of it, someone following him hissing, “Get back here! How dare you! Where are you going?!”

“Sker-“ John blurts, mangling Scott and Sherlock together in his attempt to say both at once. Sherlock looks up and spots him. Neck craning like an angry goose, Joseph leans forward from the stairs and glares down the landing. “You!”

“You!” John replies, moving forward. Sherlock’s still dressed, Joseph is a vision of anger in silk underpants and he’s got his hand on Sherlock’s collar where it isn’t wanted. John notices this in a flash, and a dark feeling rouses in him at the sight of that hand. The feeling speaks loud and clear from part of his hind brain, and suggests in blunt terms that it would be a good thing indeed to Not Allow That.

“Joe?” Eric throws in.

Sherlock takes advantage of the muddle to shake the hand off before John makes Joseph choke on it. He covers the space between them in less than five long paces, moving fast enough to make John pause in his own approach. He sees Sherlock’s face, somewhat pale even for him, and with an uncharacteristic expression of desperation.

He opens his mouth foolishly to say his name, and recklessly, Sherlock catches his face between his hands and stops the blunder with a kiss.

It’s sloppy and executed with more earnestness than panache, and takes John completely by surprise. He pulls back from Sherlock’s grip, except Sherlock is gasping, “Kiss me. Kiss me!” at him under his breath, and like a slave he obeys.

He forgets that Eric must be watching. He forgets that he’s angry with Sherlock. His world narrows to the silk of their evening dress shirts slipping against one another, and Sherlock’s clumsy lips.

John kisses him, swept away, body functioning on automatic and it is all at once dynamite and fear. Sherlock’s hands suddenly shake against his face and he pulls back with a jerk, his expression the strangest thing John’s ever seen.

“Fuck…” Eric says from behind John, awed. Sherlock turns his face to the wall, clearing his throat and looking on the verge of blushing to his roots. He has not let go of John. Stunned, John doesn’t think to let go either.

“Ok, well that’s clear as day, thank you so much for that,” Joseph says, cold and annoyed. “What a fucking mess. Rank fucking amateurs. Go home.”

“Apologies,” Sherlock replies, insincere but quiet.

There’s a moment of silence, eyes meet.

“Swap with me,” John gulps. He looks over to the stairs at Joseph, head still spinning. “Look, we’re not- obviously. You go with Eric. I’ll take my stuff and go with Sh-“ he swallows, one hand still caught in Sherlock’s lapel. “Him.”

Eric throws his arms up in a shrug. “Beats standing in the hall all night. They’re not gonna change their minds so what do you say, Jose? I’m game.”

The other man considers and then lifts his chin, haughty.

“Do you top?”

“Yes,” Eric replies, just as snide. “More than you could.”

Joseph sighs. “I’ll get my things.”

John’s knees feel wobbly. Sherlock’s still half hunched into him like a frightened rabbit, and John feels in danger of going off into a fit of mad laughter. He manages to keep a lid on it by staring at the carpet and carefully disentangling himself.

“Suitcase,” he tells Sherlock, not as firmly as he’d like. It sounds like a codeword for ‘Get your act together’ so he repeats it twice, once to himself with his finger held up in admonishment, and then again to Sherlock. He points at Eric as a warning not to speak and then he stalks back into the bedroom. With as much dignity as he can muster, he collects his bag.

They pass Joseph in the hall on the way back, in a manoeuvre that feels like a hostage trade-off, except Joseph has added a silk dressing gown and a little wheely case to the silk underpants ensemble and it very nearly sends John into hysterics all over again. Sherlock hastily shuffles him away down the landing, and they make a mute and calculated decision not to look back. The door clicks shut and the hall becomes very quiet.

They retreat into Sherlock’s room and it’s only at this point that John realises how he’s now set himself up. “Right…” he says weakly under his breath, eyeing the bed. He puts his bag down on his side, without considering how he automatically knows which is Sherlock’s.

Sherlock meanwhile has composed himself. By the time John’s turned around he’s straightened his collar and ruffled his hair back into it’s usual ordered disorder and is looking through his own bag for something.

“Get changed,” he says, “You’ll find a set of dark clothes in the bottom of your bag.”

“Just slow down a moment,” John says, the energy of the hallway encounter fading. He pulls his bowtie loose so he can breath and takes a seat on the bed. “I need a moment to…” he touches his tongue to his lower lip. He swallows. “Catch up.”

“Yes, right, well, you do that, but not too long, things to do, John,” Sherlock replies disjointedly and John’s face creases in annoyance.

“No, I _need_ a minute. You just- That was too much out there.”

“If we’re to have any hope of catching this killer, John, there’s no time to waste. I need to get down into Carlton’s study and go through the membership lists in order to cross reference names with their correlating partners over the past few eve-“

“Stop.”

John says it quietly, but he means it and Sherlock’s voice jerks to a halt even if his hands don’t and John’s annoyance turns to concern. He feels the ghost of Sherlock’s body heat over his belly; a phantom feeling that is nonetheless enough to make his skin tingle. It’s heat he remembers but it goes through him like a chill, and John shivers and finds it refreshing. ‘Kiss me’ Sherlock had pleaded, and so help him, he had. Who was to blame for that? He’d been surprised, not forced. They’ve been through hell and back already and John weighs his options in a second and concludes, unsurprised, that the value of confrontation is next to nothing compared to the cost it may bring down on them both.

“John- I,” Sherlock begins looking at him cautiously. John holds up a hand.

“It’s over,” John exhales, awkward. “It’s fine, it’s done now. For now. Let’s just- get whatever it is you’re after from the office and then we can worry about tomorrow.” He swallows. Rolls his lips against one another again, and then starts fetching out his change of clothes. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something and then changes his mind and does the same. They move in silence. On the other side of the wall they can hear a shower running, and then something thumps against the wall, making John jump.

“Ensuite’s less soundproof than the main bedrooms,” Sherlock comments.

John clears his throat. “Noted.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Don’t fart,” he advises, nodding towards the bathroom. John bursts out with a short laugh despite himself, rasping a hand through his hair.

“Jesus,” he says, looking as Sherlock fumbles his way into a dark sweater. He re-emerges, hair tousled, and gives John another of those cautious little looks. John bites his inner cheek and zips up his jacket. “You’re alright then?” he asks, a touch gruff with remorse for failing to check before now. “No harm done?” John jerks his chin towards the direction of the other two men. He means between them. Sherlock delays a heartbeat or two before replying.

“No harm done,” Sherlock tells him, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

John stoops and pulls on his shoes. “Let’s just get on with it then.”

—

Despite all the precautions they meet no one in the rest of the house, although they hear them from time to time, which John thinks in some ways is worse. He trudges along behind Sherlock, fingers twitching at every noise, feeling the back of his neck turn red. Sherlock stoically ignores anything that isn’t related directly to strangling. John envies him that.

He’s on edge and nervous. Everything seems to go on a direct line through the length of his spine, be it the odd overheard gasp, or the brush of the soft cotton of his t-shirt against his chest, or the way Sherlock sometimes suddenly halts and puts a hand back to stop him going further. Usually when they’re doing stupid dangerous shit his heartbeat remains relatively steady, but this time it races.

It’s a little bit heady.

Worse, it’s a little bit arousing and John doesn’t want to face what he feels about that.

He stands guard while Sherlock picks locks, John shifting his weight restlessly from heel to heel, peering back around a dark corner into a dimly lit section of hallway. Sherlock pops the lock with a soft click and steals off into the dark, leaving John to keep an eye on their line of retreat.

“Hurry up,” John whispers. He can’t even see Sherlock in there, it’s so dark. He sways against the wall, the lack of light messing with his sense of balance and his heel knocks against the skirting board.

“John?”

“M’fine, hurry up,” John says. He stands, wincing at the periodic flash of Sherlock’s camera phone, and then swears softly and backs into the office as he sees a light approaching. Unsteadily, he moves to shut the door, only to have Sherlock appear at his side at once to catch it and close it instead to within a hair of being truly shut.

“Shh,” Sherlock breathes at him.

John plants a hand against the wall to keep himself from blundering around and waits, his other hand curled into a fist in readiness. He can feel Sherlock breathing at his side; the rise and fall of his ribs and it gives him another of those long, not unfamiliar, thrills across his torso. ‘ _We kissed,_ ’ he thinks. He can barely see Sherlock’s face; it’s just a pale smudge in the dark, but he bets it would take him all of thirty seconds to find his lips again.

The light oils along the crack under the door, pauses and then moves on with a soft, deliberate tread. They stand, motionless until everything is dark and quiet except the fire in John’s belly and then Sherlock shifts, pushing something that rustles into his sweater.

“Let’s go.”

He slips out, beckoning John behind him, alert for danger and then gently snicks the door shut behind them. They retreat. John reaches out and brushes a hand over his elbow. “You got the-?”

“Shh. Yes,” Sherlock taps his chest. John can just make out the bulge of his phone and he hears the crinkle of paper. They sneak back through the house up the stairs, and back to the room.

John closes the door behind them, exhausted. His mouth feels dry and his head is starting to ache dully from all the wine earlier. It occurs to him now that he’s been a little drunker than he’d appreciated all evening. He rubs at his face. “Please tell me this case is over.”

“Not quite over,” Sherlock replies, a touch apologetic. He lights the lamp by the bed and it throws a soft glow across the room. “Over for tonight,” he allows. It’s late; the clock reads half two in the morning. The shower next door has stopped running, and thankfully whoever is occupying the room has decided to take things to bed or else passed out. John tries not to think about it.

It’s more or less all he can think about.

He awkwardly squirrels his pyjama’s into his arms and shuts himself in the ensuite to change. The cold tile brings him out in gooseflesh and his nudity, never something he typically flashes around, feels additionally embarrassing tonight. He armours himself in his dressing gown, tugging the collar tight closed although it feels more to keep himself in than anyone else out. He takes his time avoiding his own eye in the mirror as he scrubs at his teeth and then eventually has to emerge.

Sherlock is sat on what is nominally ‘his’ side of the bed, scrolling through his phone.

“Solved it?”

“Narrowed it down,” Sherlock says, glancing him over but keeping his thoughts to himself. “Without observing the individuals in actual intercourse I’ll have to postpone making my final deductions until the final social.”

John keeps his eyes on the neutral space of the blank wall over the bed.

“Right. Social. What social?”

“Tomorrow evening.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Couples.”

“Do I… get any details?”

“It’s just a meal; nothing so formal as this evening. Music, I believe. Cards.” Sherlock gropes for more words. “Bonding.”

John closes his eyes. Of course it is. What else could he have expected. “I’m getting a hangover, and I’m still awake,” he says rather than answer. He doesn’t ask, he just turns off the main light and sets himself on the bed on ‘his’ own side. Sherlock doesn’t budge but its a decent-sized mattress and even at close quarters they’re not touching.

‘ _It doesn’t mean anything. We slept on stairs before. We’ve shared a prison cell smaller than this_ ’, John thinks, briskly defining his share of the bedclothes. Sherlock shifts enough to allow him to shove the duvet around, although it’s not cold in the room. John’s got himself wrapped up from head to toe in defensive cotton pyjama, and Carlton, anticipating that doubtless the rest of his guests forewent packing sleepwear altogether, has had the heating ramped up anyway.

He settles. The mattress is disgustingly good and far superior to his one back at the flat. John sinks into it, unable to resist, and it’s strange how a little physical comfort helps to ease some of the jangling of his nerves. Sherlock moves only one finger, flicking between photos of the documents he stole from Carlton’s office. After a long moment of mutual silence, Sherlock quietly turns off the lamp.

John lies there in the dark, arms folded across himself. Sherlock even dims his phone so as not to disturb him, which John can’t help but notice because typically he doesn’t bother. From this angle, it throws his face into sharp shadows and makes him look a bit alien. John swallows.

They kissed.

He knows if he just pretends it never happened, Sherlock will never mention it. In that respect, it’s terribly simple. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut. Sherlock’s mouth looks blue and cold in the light from his iPhone; John’s heart skips and reminds him how very untrue that is. He closes his eyes and pretends he’s trying to go to sleep.

He sighs and tries to genuinely relax more, forcing one arm away from himself. He puts it above his head, ostensibly to rearrange the pillow. There’s something cool and scratchy underneath it and he feels at it in bewilderment for a moment before the realisation dawns on him that it’s a string of little packets. He feels at them again to confirm, shocked.

“There’s lube under my pillow.”

He hears more than sees Sherlock pause, blink and adjust his position on the bed. “There’s johnnies under mine.”

“No, there aren’t.” John says firmly, and before he laughs, rolls over to put his back to Sherlock. The lube falls with a soft thunk between the bed and the mattress, Sherlock quietly fishes it out, and then the room goes almost pitch black as he puts his phone into his pocket. The bed tilts sightly as he stands, and John hears him pad away towards the bathroom.

John lifts his head from the pillow a fraction. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock pauses in the doorway to the bathroom. John can see he’s picked up his own dressing gown from his bag, and he has a fistful of pockets in the other hand. As if on cue, they hear a muffled noise from the room above them.

“It’s supposed to be a night of debauchery,” Sherlock replies, curling his fingers around the packets so that they crackle. John catches the barest hint of something in his tone. “I’m going to fake it.”

He closes the door and leaves John thinking, in the dark, and aching.  
___  
___


	2. 41: Chicanery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sherlock continue with their case and their awkward trouser feelings. Everyone is in on something, and in which I have far too much fun with dumb tropes.
> 
> Beta'd for me by the lovely Zwaluw, which much thanks for the help and input. I've fixed most of the typos, though if you see anything don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
> And now, without further ado....

**PART TWO: Chicanery**

John sleeps deep despite everything and surfaces only when Sherlock shakes him gently awake in the morning. “John, time to get up.”

He rolls, smearing his face into the pillow with a growl and then squints at his watch on the bedside table. “Wossatime?”

“A few minutes to nine,” Sherlock tells him around a toothbrush, half-dressed and fussing with phone as usual. He steps into John’s vision, giving him a close up of his skinny, hairy legs and then deposits a glass of water on the table for him. “Up, I’m making tea.”

“Coffee,” John mutters, nearly fumbling the glass into bed with him. “My head.”

It’s the champagne. Fizz followed by wine followed by port followed by brandy- automatic recipe for a hangover. He hears Sherlock spitting in the sink and running the taps. The other reappears, be-trousered in jeans John has never seen before, and drops a couple of fresh Alka-Seltzers in front of John’s nose. “Up.”

“I’m up,” John protests. He scurries the aspirin into his water and sips at the resulting froth, gradually oozing his way upright.

“Please tell me there’s breakfast.”

“There’s breakfast. Get dressed,” Sherlock tells him, busy finger-combing his hair into order.

John stretches and yawns till both his spine and jaw pop and then winces, clicking his neck from one side to the other. He’s slept well, he has to admit, hangover aside (and even that’s not as awful as it could have been). He slouches into the bathroom and savages his face with cold water in a bid to feel fully human, and then throws himself into a brisk shower. He emerges feeling alert, and bundles himself into the marshmallowy dressing gown left hanging on the back of the door.

“Nice,” John comments, tucking it around himself. It’s nicer than his and he’s got half a mind to nick when they leave. He picks up his toothbrush and frowns at a peculiar plastic box on the glass shelf there. “What’s this?” He opens it and grimaces.

“Sherlock, there’s someone’s tooth-“

“Retainer.”

“Same thing. Wait, you don’t-?”

“No, Joseph.”

John drops it back on the shelf with a scowl. “Right.” He scrubs at his gums and leans to spit in the sink before shaving. Right. Joseph. Last night. And all that.

The retainer sits there, no doubt grinning to itself in it’s plastic container, and John’s annoyed enough that he nicks his chin. He blots it with loo roll and steps on the peddle bin to discard the waste. Then he pauses. The latex wriggle in the bottom of the bin is rather sad looking amongst the brighter foil wrappers and crumpled tissues. John drops his piece of loo roll on top of it and tries not to think about it.

He can’t help thinking about it.

He scrubs his face dry on the face towel and returns to the bedroom for something to wear.

Sherlock’s hung the suits up in their zippered bags on the door of the wardrobe, and John himself shoved his dark sneaking-around-the-house trousers into his bag before he fell asleep the night before.

John cobbles together an outfit from the other pieces in his bag; nothing too exceptional compared to his usual stuff. Black jeans, which is a bit more daring than usual, and which he tones down with a soft grey sweatshirt. Sherlock scrambles together a couple of cups of coffee and they down them, piping hot.

“So, what’s happening today?” John asks, between scalding swallows.

“Slow morning, watch who emerges when with who, in what state, observe,” Sherlock says like he’s sending a verbal telegram, “Evening meal, entertainment, unearth murderer, leave in morning, inform police.”

John considers this. “Right. And we’re still…” He fills his mouth with coffee so he needn’t finish the sentence. Sherlock shuffles around, doing likewise. “Hm,” he says, imprecisely, and then puts his cup down with a clatter.

“Food?”

“Wait. How…?” John starts, stumbling on too many questions he doesn’t want to have to put into words. How are they going to fake it; how is he supposed to answer Eric’s inevitable questions? How is he meant to react if… if he’s meant to react again?

Worse, what should he do if he _does_ react?

All he manages to say is, “I mean, how?”

“I believe it’s a buffet,” Sherlock says and John stares at him in his stupid new jeans and stupid clingy polo-neck and feels his brain fizzle to a sudden stop. “What?” John says finally.

“Breakfast. Self-service, I presume, given the certainty of guests rising and eating at differing times and consuming varied foods and quantities.”

“Are we- we’re not having the same conversation,” John complains.

“No,” Sherlock admits, pulling on a jacket and opening the door. “Not right at this moment.”

“But what- I- will I have to-?”

Sherlock shoots him a look of uncharacteristic heat and his words, when they come out, are nothing short of spat. “Oh just be you, John. For heaven’s sakes, must you be so insufferably stupid? Everyone already leaps to conclusions and ‘talks’, as you always put it. All you have to do is shut your mouth and let them get on with it. They’re all intolerably good at filling the blanks.”

John is taken aback by the vitriol.

“Case, John. Pull yourself together; it’s for the case.” Sherlock turns as he speaks and moves to step out the door. Without thinking, John puts his hand out and rams the door shut, nearly clipping his nose. This time it’s Sherlock who looks affronted.

“You’re dumped,” John says, breathing too hard for a man standing still. “I dumped you. You were a shit boyfriend, and we had a massive row last night and now it’s over.”

Some of the elasticity seems to drop out of Sherlock’s face and then it turns as hard as plastic.

“Very well.”

“We’re only still speaking because you’ve got to drive me back to London.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Let’s not ruin the party.”

“Great.”

“And how shall we explain the used _accoutrements_?” Sherlock sneers.

That sad bit of latex and the lubey fingerprints. John feels his face go red. He leans in and hisses in Sherlock’s face.

“Hate. Sex. I won.” Without waiting for a response John elbows him out of the way and jerks the door open. It’s too bloody early for this.

____

 

John sits on one side of the room, Sherlock sits on the other. It’s a big room to be sulking in with no one else for company. John hunches his shoulders and works out his irritation by eating more than one man’s rightful share of breakfast foods. The longer it goes on the more he regrets lashing out and the more he wonders if Sherlock is ok. Contrarily, the longer it goes on, the less inclined he feels to make the first move to fix things. Sherlock was the one who landed them in this fine mess in the first place, after all.

John stares into the congealing mess of his breakfast and feels ill. It’s not a portentous start to the day.

After a while, a few people begin to drift downstairs. Bloody-Stupidly-Named-Tarquin is amongst the first, not even dressed. He swans in, wearing half of his suit from the night before and John would put money down that he’s still completely drunk. He glances around once he’s filled his plate and opts for the thunderstorm over John in preference to the Arctic chill surrounding Sherlock.

“Hallo,” he drawls, half falling into the chair opposite John. “Good eggning.”

“It’s morning, and you’re pissed,” John informs him. Tarquin grins a slow, sloppy grin. His eyes are red. “Mmmmay-be!” He leans in over the table and points his fork at Sherlock. “That yours?”

“Sort of,” John mutters, shifting in his chair. Tarquin sucks egg from his finger and muses over the oddity of John and Sherlock through a haze of whatever is addling him.

“How’d you meet?”

‘In a morgue,’ John recalls, ‘he’d been whipping a corpse and I was…nothing.’ The memory saddens him a bit, because no matter how much Sherlock gets him into trouble and winds him up, he has never felt that he’s much of a man without him. John worries at a packet of sugar discarded on the table.

“We were roommates,” he says. He’s forgotten their lie and this seems like the safest option. He’s horribly aware that Sherlock’s gone still- he’s not had to look to know this, he can just sense it somehow, doglike- and he knows that Sherlock is listening. “Um. On a business… thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Tarquin nods very slowly. “So now you’re…”

“No. Well, Yes,” John croaks. “Mostly.”

“Ohhh…not single then?”

“No.”

“Fancy one?”

“I’ve just eaten,” John says distantly. He glances out the corner of his eye and gets but a glimpse of Sherlock studying his own hands intently.

“Sure?” Tarquin asks, attempting to lean his chin on his fist and missing. John leans back, pushing his plate between them. Under the table, Tarquin’s foot clumsily finds his ankle.

“He’s not interested.”

Both of them jump. Tarquin wobbles in his chair as he reorients to stare at Sherlock, who now has his eyes shut and is seemingly on the verge of a nap.

“Oh sorry. You’re like a proper thing, then?”

“Hm,” Sherlock says, which could mean anything, and as Tarquin takes this at face value, shrugs and returns to ham-fistedly sliding egg around his plate, John keeps his head down and leaves the other men to it. The back of his neck feels hot for longer than his breakfast lasts though.

Gradually others appear. The flautist enters, who passes a friendly smiles to John before loading a plate with nothing but bread rolls and butter and heading back for the stairs, the newspaper dangling from his free hand.

“Nice man,” Tarquin comments, leaning heavily on one elbow and dropping bacon in his lap in the process. “Lovely hum.”

John puts his knife and fork to one side and escapes from the table on the pretence of refilling his cup, which forces him onto one of the sofas slightly closer to Sherlock’s corner. He ignores him. Sherlock tucks his legs up and does his best impression of Man with Sour Hangover. The cup of tea doesn’t last forever, and John abandons it on the arm of the sofa, stone cold and only half drunk by the time he gets fed up.

Sherlock looks up without moving his head as he approaches, and John can’t help but think he actually does look like he’s feeling rotten. It stops the caustic tone he’s been holding on his tongue from slipping out too readily.

“I’m going to go for a walk around,” John tells him quietly, instead. Sherlock considers this, looking into his cup like he’s scrying all the answers and then gives a brief nod of assent. “Don’t go too far,” he says, and it’s such a meek response for Sherlock that John softens.

“I’ll stick around,” he tells him. “Back here in…” John thinks. Weighs up how much space and air he needs from this quiet dining room and this damocles sword hanging over them. “Twenty minutes?”

Sherlock nods again.

John hesitates, words almost on the tip of his dry tongue and then he remembers he’s supposed to be angry and Sherlock’s supposed to be the one offering olive branches. He turns on his heel, instead, and leaves the room, knowing without seeing that Sherlock watches him until he’s out of sight.

____  
____

There is party wreckage everywhere, but nothing as horrendous as John has seen in his time. Obviously he’s never been to an event on this scale, but he’s been to a few house parties that got out of control. Here the mess seems tame and contained. A few members of staff appear to have been out tidying up the quieter areas already.

He’d like to take a turn around the gardens and really get away from it all, but he said twenty minutes and that would take too long. He does the perimeter of the house instead, noting which windows are open and which aren’t, which have the curtains drawn and which have them firmly shut. The wind helps to clear his head from the cloud of hangover, but it can’t quite blow away the question nagging at him.

It’s a ‘why’ question.

John’s not got the reputation for being the great detective. He’s got a sense of logic, but as Sherlock’s forever telling him, he usually doesn’t have enough information to apply it to, because he fails to see the little details. For the first time though, John feels he has an advantage in this situation; that maybe this time it’s him who would have the superior insight because for all his so-called failings in the intellectual department, he knows how kissing works with his eyes shut.

He knows why Sherlock kissed him in front of Joseph and Eric. He can even fathom with confidence why he kissed him like that; in a panic, badly, and then lightly when John had…well…when John had made it more convincing.

What John wants to know is why he pulled back and for a moment looked so stricken.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” John tells the stone pineapple on the sweep of the stairs to the front door. “He bloody well asked me to do it.” He leans on the balustrade and feels a wave of gloom go through him. He can’t think what he did wrong. It’s not like he hasn’t kissed before; he’s not entirely convinced that was Sherlock’s first effort either.

“No one else has complained,” John mutters to the pineapple. It’s noncommittal on the subject, but it’s very silence seems reproachful. Maybe everyone else has just lied to him. Sherlock’s often brutally honest when others aren’t. Maybe this is the adult version of Father Christmas; finding out you’re rubbish at kissing.

“Oh. James?”

John starts out of his thoughts at once but it takes him a moment to register that it’s him being spoken to. Eric raises a hand in cautious greeting. “Easy,” he says, “Just me. How’s it?”

“What?”

“Are you ok?” Eric asks. He’s evidently come out to smoke as he has his lighter in one hand. He pings up a flame and lights up, leaning on the opposite balustrade. “I mean…” he gives a low whistle. “How are things after last night?”

“Fine,” John says, automatically, and then realises there’s no way he and Sherlock are going to make everything look rose-tinted when he goes back inside. “Bit of a…dust-up.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Eric says slowly. “Did you make him sleep on the floor? I’d have made him sleep in the fucking yard.”

John clears his throat, coughing. Eric moves his cigarette aside, though it’s obvious that’s not why John’s coughing.

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, you didn’t. Really?” Eric goes from incredulity via disapprobation to end up at curiosity at lightning speed. “Oh, are you one of those couples? Like, it’s all about the fight? That gets you hot?”

“Well- what; no. No!” John blusters, the idea lodging in his brain like a dart and provoking memories of all the times he has argued with Sherlock and lost his temper, and physically had terms out with him; and finds himself reddening. “I- this whole thing has been one enormous mistake; I don’t actually want to talk about any of it, thanks.”

“Ok. I won’t ask,” Eric replies, “Excuse me for checking on you.”

“You’re excused,” John says, embarrassment making him sharp. “I’m fine.”

Eric frowns and thrusts his cigarette at John. “Reality check. You agreed to go swinging just to please your boyfriend, you clearly didn’t tell him anything about how you felt about it, you had angry sex, and now you’re fine?”

“NO, that’s not- no, stop. You just stop,” John thrusts his finger back, reaching for and finding his Captain’s anger, which annoyingly has little effect on Eric, who’s had too much experience with just the type, “I’m angry with him, he’s angry with him,” John realises it’s true even as the words slip out. “And he’s angry with me, and…I’m angry with myself.” He is, which hurts.

Eric weighs all this up and pulls a face.

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of talking to do to untangle that mess.” He drops the cigarette to the steps and treads it out. Then he catches John’s expression. “You’re still not gonna talk to him?” He echoes himself with disbelief. “You realise not talking got us all into that mess last night?”

“We don’t really talk,” John says, highly uncomfortable. “In fact, I think I’ve had enough talking. Thanks. Bye.” He moves past Eric into the house, but the man follows hot on his heels.

“You don’t talk? Are you kidding me? Hey, stop and face up to things, you coward.”

John freezes in place and pivots round to face him, his face a perfect picture of affront. He’s furious; it comes out cold and polite with a smile. “I’m sorry, just where the hell do you get off?”

“Right here- How about this? You should grow up!” Eric throws back. He’s not shouting, but there’s no tuning him out either. John gapes.

“That’s right, you heard me. Grow the fuck up. Ah, no, don’t you even- Zip it!” Eric is an explosion controlled energy; John’s not sure how to handle it. All of his usual fallbacks suddenly seem unlikely options for success.

“I have been doing this for _a long time_ ; I don’t care if you’re older- do I look like I care? I’m a fucking expert here.” John’s so astounded he finds himself retreating. “And here’s a News Flash!” Eric goes on, warming to his topic. “No one likes those conversations. They’re not fun. They’re not sexy. They’re not easy. But you know who just get’s on and has them anyway? Responsible fucking adults.”

“It’s got _nothing_ to do with you!” John pants, looking for an escape route, or at least for someone to come and provide him with backup. He half trips on a rug and stumbles back a few paces. Can’t anyone hear them? Someone should be able to hear them. The thought makes John suddenly even more panicked. They’re only just inside the lobby and the dining room is at the back of the house but anyone on the stairs could hear them.

“I know! That’s what makes me worried!” Eric throws open his arms in exasperation. “Talk to him. Don’t get hurt more.”

“Alright, alright, can you just be quiet?” John hisses.

“Talk to him,” Eric insists. “You could be a good couple if you weren’t so lousy.”

John’s heard so many permeations of this before. There have been so many people mistaking them for a couple even when they’re not pretending. There have been so many hints that they’re some sort of star-crossed lovers who just have been a bit lazy about showing the world their perfection, but this is the first time John feels struck by the words. “We’re not a good couple,” he repeats, numb with agreement. Are they even good friends, he wonders. At any rate, they’re not a good couple. It rings around in his head in six syllables of disappointment.

“Not right now, no; you’re pretty fucked,” Eric tells him, without spite. “But you’ve got to have something. He went right up to you like you had something.”

John feels his expression close down. It’s reflex. It’s easier than letting things slip.

“Come on,” Eric says, relenting. “I’m getting carried away, but-”

He is cut off by a scream. John freezes, heart leaping, looking up. It’s distant, from upstairs. One of the rooms. And loud. John hears doors opening. Another scream.

“What-“ Eric starts and then hurries after John as he bolts for the stairs.

There are footsteps behind him, hurried, and a yelp from Eric as someone muscles past him.

“Up,” Sherlock says; taking the stairs two at a time. “Take the second floor, I’ll take the third.”

They split on the landing, Sherlock bounding up the next flight of stairs, John going down the second floor landing, pushing on doors, alert. Eric hops around indecisively and then gallops after John.

“What’s the situation?”

“Don’t know,” John says. People are sticking rumpled heads out of doorways, looking puzzled. They reach the end of the corridor without finding anything awry and John takes the stairs to the third floor.

There are five floors per room; 305 is shut fast. A man appears at the door of 304, looking sleep-smeared and alarmed. “Eric?”

“Henry! Who’s screaming?”

“I don’t know, it’s down there-“ Henry points.

“Jesus,” John says. The door to 301 has been thrown open. There’s no sign of Sherlock.

He wastes no time in reaching it, head up, instinctively looking for the fight. Instead he finds the aftermath. The main part of the room is undisturbed, though there’s a splatter of blood on the carpet leading from the ensuite. He spots Sherlock’s feet sticking out of the doorway where he’s kneeling.

“In here,” Sherlock calls. “A little assistance.”

John falls in, tearing the buttons from his cuffs to roll them up. Sherlock’s leaning over a body on the floor. He has one of the towels in his hands, damp and balled up against the mans’ head, already staining red. John squats beside him.

“Let me see.”

Sherlock moves aside, letting go only once John has a grip on the towel. John lifts it momentarily to look. The gash is a sharp one between a mat of blond hair. It’s bleeding freely and might need stitches, but it’s not going to be fatal. The man’s clearly had enough in him to scream the roof down, so he can’t be dying.

“Holy shit,” Eric says from the room. “Should I get someone?”

“I’ve done First Aid,” John says, ignoring him. He bends his head to speak to the victim. “Hello, can you hear me?”

Joseph groans in response.

“OK, that’s good.” John looks up. “Get me a first aid kit. Now, please.” Eric goggles at him and then old obedience to command kicks in and he runs.

“Stay down,” John says, the towel squishing between his fingers. “No sudden movements. Pass me that other towel.” Sherlock hands it to him.

Joseph cracks an eye open and gulps, fingers pawing at the tiles. “Joseph, can you tell me what happened? Did you fall?”

“Someone hit me,” Joseph whimpers. “I just wanted my retainer.”

John dislikes head wounds. They make an enormous mess and all you can do is sit solidly and put pressure on them until they decide to stop. Sherlock rinses his hands and prowls the bedroom, clearly on the trail of something. He glances in on John, who nods and only then does he leave to pursue it.

“I got a kit!” Eric hustles through the small but growing knot of curious people poking their heads into the room. “Here!”

“It hurts.”

“Yes, but the good news is you’re not dying,” John tells him. Cautiously he lifts the towels. The bleeding has become sluggish enough to ease off the pressure and John discards the towels into the shower, able to wash his hands and use the kit to clean out the wound properly. He sticks gauze over it and slowly allows Joseph to sit up.

“Go get him a shirt,” John orders over his shoulder. Joseph’s front looks like he’s harpooned a pig.

“Where’s George?” Joseph wants to know. “Can someone find him?”

“I’m on it!” Eric calls, darting from the room again, and sensibly, pushing half the onlookers out of it.

It takes them a while to move Joseph to the end of the bed, where he sits while John finishes bandaging him up. There’s nothing for it but to send him to A&E, though he won’t need an ambulance. One of the other men could take him by car. He’ll need stitches and may have a touch of concussion, but he doesn’t seem in danger of suddenly passing out provided he doesn’t do anything stupid. Sherlock roams around in the background, frowning and trying not to look pleased by turns.

Eric returns with a shirt, and not only George, but the head of the house on his heels.

“What’s happened here?” Carlton demands.

“Nothing, a slip and a fall; that’s all. Everyone’s being terribly over-dramatic,” Sherlock says before anyone else can open their mouth. John lifts his head to catch Sherlock’s eye and recognises the look on his face.

“No harm done, just a bad bump on the head. A couple of stitches.”

“Eric said you’d been attacked,” George argues, moving to crouch beside Joseph, he throws each man a look, which cuts through them like steel. John tries to think fast; he knows Sherlock has a ready series of lies to hand, and yet, Joseph beats them to it.

“Don’t listen to Eric, he’s an idiot,” Joseph complains, deeply petulant. “I slipped on something on the tiles. One of these slobs left the soap out.”

George looks like he doesn’t believe either Sherlock or John, but he finds Joseph harder to doubt. “People heard you screaming-“

“Well, it was a shock!” he throws back shortly. “And my head hurts and there’s blood everywhere.”

“Poor old chap,” Carlton says, looking sick and nervous. “I’ll have… Wall call for the doctor.”

“You need someone to drive him to hospital,” John counters. “I’ve done what I can.” Carton looks at him with renewed interest. Sherlock excuses him.

“James works with doctors; he’s picked a few things up.”

“Right you are. Well, I’d better see to that. Tell the others not to panic. Chin up, Joseph.”

John steps back to allow George to take over while there’s nothing more to be done other than ease the man into a clean shirt. Eric blusters everyone away from the hall and Sherlock quietly closes the bedroom door.

“What do you remember?” he asks, as soon as it’s safe to do so.

“Nothing. I went into the bathroom for my retainer, and the next thing I know, I’m on the floor with a headache.”

George goes still. “You were attacked?”

“You saw nothing?”

“Yes. No, I didn’t see anything,” Joseph grits out, still holding his head. “Only his feet. I’m not good at recognising people by their feet.” He puts his hand into his boyfriend and squeezes.

“Shoes? Socks?” Sherlock prompts.

“Black shoes.” Joseph replies, and then squints with recollection. “Oxfords, maybe? I don’t know, my vision was swimming at that point.”

Sherlock makes a noise of frustration. A shoe as nondescript as that gives him very little to go on.

“How’s your sight now?” John asks, carefully lifting one of Joseph’s eyelids to take a look.

“It’s not too bad. Clearing up.”

“Nausea?”

“No, just annoyance. Listen, catch this bastard, won’t you. I’ll pay the fees.”

A profound silence falls over the bedroom, Sherlock looking archly down at the man, John feeling the first hint of panic rising. George, quite calmly, rearranges Joseph’s hair around the bandage and adds, “I’ll pay double.”

“What?” says Eric.

John tries to wet the sudden cotton-dryness of his palate. “Um, I’m not sure what you’re talking about but-” double the fee, he thinks. Double the _unnamed_ fee. From men who casually throw around money like it’s confetti. John feels a confusion in his morals.

George doesn’t look remotely phased. “That’s what you do isn’t it, Mr. Holmes? Some sort of police bounty hunter?”

“Holmes?!” says Eric, goggling. “As in-?”

John feels like the floor has suddenly dropped out from under him. “Wait, _you_ know?” The look Joseph gives him makes him balk. Sherlock is staring at the pair of them, very still. “You know,” John repeats, looking at Joseph. The other man gives him an exasperated look from under the bandages.

“Of course I know you’re Sherlock Holmes- do you think I don’t know who shops on Saville Row? I thought you were going to make me wear the hat,” he adds in a mutter. John doesn’t know how Sherlock doesn’t colour up at that, but he’d give triple an unnamed fee to be able to say the same of his own face right then.

“Basically everyone here,” Joseph gestures to the occupants of the room, “Knows who you are- we were just too polite to mention it. You knew, didn’t you dear?”

“I had an inkling,” George says, slowly.

Eric throws his hands up in outrage, “I didn’t! No one told me!”

John flounders.

“I- you’ve made some sort of mistake; I don’t know what you’re- what you’re-“

“John,” Sherlock says, through his panic.

Joseph stares at John. He gestures between himself and Eric, and then includes George as an afterthought. “Calm down. As if _we’re_ going to judge?” He shrugs. “Personally, I assumed you were like the rest of us; looking for privacy.”

“Yeah, unless one of us is a murderer,” Eric says off-handedly. The room goes quiet. Sherlock and John both open their mouths as the rest of the men’s mouths fall open.

“Oh my God, you are. This is a case, we’re in a case,” Eric says shaking Joseph’s shoulder. “You’re a case, Joe.”

“Off,” Joseph protests, holding his head. “Don’t shake me. Don’t call me Joe…”

“Eric, please,” George says, standing. “Gentlemen, I won’t ask you to explain what it is you’re doing here, if it’s not to…commingle. I don’t want to be involved, and I don’t want Joseph involved, but tell us; do you think he’s in danger?”

“No,” Sherlock says, eyes glazed as he chases unseen trails of thought around. “I don’t think so. This was unplanned- an accident. Interesting.” He inhales sharply. “Oh, yes. Very interesting.”

“Sherlock?”

“Shh,” Sherlock replies, feeling around the bedstead and the side tables, the wardrobe and on top of the curtain poles. He comes away empty-handed and satisfied. “No one outside of this room must hear our names. Take him to hospital and then come back if you’d like the chance to see who exactly it was.”

“Sherlock, that’s not a good idea.”

“Oh, it was only a fall. He’s had worse,” Sherlock says.

“I want to come back,” Joseph says, still gingerly touching his head. “I’ve ruined a bloody good shirt over this; if someone’s going to pay for it, I want to be there to jam the bill down his throat.”

“You could have concussion,” George says, mildly. “You could go to another hotel. I’ll come back for our things.”

“I’ll be fine, I don’t have concussion.” Joseph gives John such a needling look, that John’s forced to agree out loud with him. As far as he can tell, it was a brisk flesh wound and a surprise rather than a heavy blow to the skull. Bloody, but not actually too damaging.

“You decide,” Sherlock concludes, making for the door. He looks pleased, which to John’s mind doesn’t bode well. On his better instinct, he follows him.

“Well, what have you found out,” he asks, as soon as it’s safe to do so.

“A regular hotbed of deviants this, John,” Sherlock replies, leaning on his fingertips over the bannisters and peering down the hallway below. “Perfect.”

“What’s going on?”

Sherlock’s lips curve up into a satisfied smile. Despite himself and despite the situation, he’s relishing the case. The smile wavers and fades when John doesn’t smile too.

“Carlton; you saw him last night. How would you say he was?”

John, annoyed, tries to think back. Although the man is the host of the party, he’s hardly said two words to them. Sherlock spoke to him at dinner, but John’s only seen Carlton up close twice.

“Friendly?” John hazards. “So what?”

“Jolly, you might say,” Sherlock agrees. “And just now, very uncomfortable.”

“One of his guests was covered in blood,” John says.

“Didn’t stick around though, did he?”

“No,” John admits, slowly. Come to mention it, Carlton had seemed to be in a bit of a rush to get away.

“We need to find a room,” Sherlock says, pushing himself from the bannisters, with a glint in his eye. “And hope it’s empty.”

“What about the pool area?” John says, remembering what Albert had mentioned before about it being open but unlikely to be used over the weekend.

Sherlock snorts, already tapping away at his phone. “A bedroom, John. Keep up-” and then he’s gone, striding down the hall. John glowers at the bannisters.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he mutters under his breath, “I never tell anyone anything because I’m too much of a _clever dick_!”

He follows him anyway.

____

Sherlock weaves up and down the landings, pausing to listen here and there, trying to scope out how many occupants were in each room, if any, and also if any, who. John tags on his heels, trying to look nonchalant and yet feeling as out of place as he ever has in his life.

“What are we looking for?”

“Spies,” Sherlock whispers back, looking very pleased at the idea. John parses this for a moment.

“Are you telling me James Bond is slinking around the building?”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” John mutters. Finally Sherlock finds a room of interest to him and quietly twists the handle, beckoning John in behind him and closing the door. John looks around.

The room is in something of a state; discarded clothing on the floor and the sheets in a frankly scandalous condition.

“God, can we open the window?” John asks, breathing through his mouth.

“Don’t touch anything with bare hands,” Sherlock says, dropping to his belly and wriggling forward to inspect the underside of the bed. John uses the sleeve of his jumper to push the window open a crack and let in some fresh air. He prowls around the rest of the space, looking for anything that seems out of place. He wanders into the ensuite and then backs out again slowly.

“Anything interesting?”

“Depends on how you define ‘interesting’,” John says, clearing his throat. Sherlock steps to one side to look over his shoulder and makes a noise at the sight of the thing left in the sink.

“Yep,” John agrees.

“Why is it so-”

“Let’s not ask,” John suggests. He has some ideas of why it’s that incredible size, that shape and that shade of luminous orange, and to be fair, it’s not a series of complicated questions, but he is definitely sure he’s not the man to explain it. Especially not to Sherlock.

“-Clean?” Sherlock concludes, frowning. He squeezes past John, who sends up a prayer to any god that’s listening to preserve him, and leans over, squinting at the object in question.

“Dry,” Sherlock reports.

“Maybe,” John suggests through gritted teeth, “They washed it. Or decided against it.”

Sherlock feels under the sink, rubs his fingers together, gummed with something gluey and then looks worried. “Missing…”

“Wash your hands,” John begs. Sherlock wipes them off on the unused dressing gown behind the door and then emerges from the bathroom. He makes a beeline for the bed, picking up the discarded sheet and holding it up to the light. He squints at it, and then to John’s horror, sniffs at it.

“Sherlock!”

“Alcohol,” Sherlock says, dropping the sheet and looking serious. “Plenty of it.”

He looks around the bedside cabinets and, curious, John watches him. Sherlock unearths more accoutrements from an apparent night of wild debauchery with grim satisfaction, and then finally inspects the two empty glasses and the half-bottle of wine left on the side.

“Handkerchief,” Sherlock demands, holding his hand out. He picks up one of the glasses in his own hankie and wipes the inside with it, slipping the cloth into a plastic baggie and away into his pocket. He repeats the operation with John’s, and the other glass.

“Drugged?” John asks, fascinated.

“One of them was, I’m sure,” Sherlock says, opening his mouth and about to explain, when a noise in the hall makes them pause.

“Someone’s coming,” John says, looking at the door. He moves towards it and listens. They’re at the far end of the hall, the furthest room out from any of the others and someone is approaching, pushing something. “Could be housekeeping.”

At this, Sherlock straightens, poised for flight. “Vedette,” he warns, under his breath. John feels a cold rush go up his spine. It’s not ‘Vatican cameos’; someone’s not going to die, but it’s dangerous.

They shift closer together, facing the door. John catches Sherlock’s eye, his face a question.

_Fight?_

Sherlock thinks and then gives a minute shake of the head. ‘Cover’, he mouths. John’s mouth is dry. They don’t have a lot of cover in the given situation, he realises. This isn’t their room, they’ve got virtually no call to be in there, and he strains to think of an excuse.

_Hide?_

Where? The wardrobe might fit one and the other could squash under the bed, or behind the door, but it would take two seconds to uncover such rudimentary hiding places.

_Bluff?_

Sherlock throws him back a look that betrays that he has no idea what to do either.

“Shit,” John mutters, under his breath. Sherlock looks at the window.

_Jump?_

It’s three storeys up, John thinks, exasperated. They can hear footsteps now. Sherlock backs up a little, as though he’s decided to rugby tackle his way out of the door after all, and then John’s brain lights up with an idea.

He doesn’t give himself time to have second thoughts about it, simply reaching out and grabbing Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock stumbles back in surprise, the toe of John’s shoe catching him on the ankle and making him sit down with a thump on the end of the bed.

“Look emotional,” John hisses, which only succeeds in making Sherlock appear like someone’s smacked him with a fish. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his.

It’s good enough. John doesn’t need to try to look flustered; he’s already burning around his ears, and Sherlock doesn’t need to feign surprise or confusion. For a scant second, it’s almost real. John looks him in the eye and sees again, that flash of something he can’t put words to, and then the door opens and they, without even planning to, spring apart in guilty surprise.

The housekeeper, Wall, stares at them, equally shocked to see them.

“Excuse me.”

“No, no. No. Not at all. Carry on. Um. Not our mess, by the way. Um-“ John blusters. The more he does it, the more he feels himself actually panicking. “Just stopped in for a… chat. We’ll be going. Excuse us-!” He tries to squeeze around the cart, beckoning Sherlock after him. Wall tilts his car against the wall, taken aback as they ooze out of the room. Sherlock flashes him one of his ‘smiles’, and then buries his hands in his pockets once they’re outside.

He blunders into John who can’t believe they got away with that. It turns out they haven’t.

“What were you doing in my room?”

It’s the flautist, his expression benevolent but equally demanding, like a school master’s.

“Uh… just… we were talking. Having a talk.”

“About us,” Sherlock says, “Everywhere else was busy and your door was open.”

“Oh yes. Forgot to shut it, probably.” The older man looks them over. “Was that housekeeping in there?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, watching him. The flautist smiles, gentle.

“I’ll come back later then. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not at all.”

“No, that’s fine,” John echoes, shuffling Sherlock down the corridor. “Sorry we intruded.”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” the flautist suggests, and turns and vanishes down the stairs.

John breathes a sigh of relief. “Now what?”

Sherlock indicates the stairs and they follow the flautist at a distance, allowing him to turn left at the bottom before turning right. He leads John out onto the front steps where John had bumped into Eric smoking earlier, and, after glancing around, takes his hand from his pocket.

John looks.

In his palm, like tiny wire snail-shell, is a disconnected microphone.

“Oh my god. Where’d that come from? What do we do?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says. “We try and blend in, until Joseph and George return.”  
______  
_____

The men come back shortly before dinner; John spots the car from the lawn, where they’ve spent the remainder of the afternoon, on a lawn like a park, the expanse of green broken up only by trees here and there. John’s spent the time walking up and down it, from the patio down to the manhole cover right at the foot of it for the water mains and back. Restless energy. He can’t keep still just sitting next to Sherlock.

Even as he’s getting up to point them out to Sherlock, who has undoubtedly already noticed, a bell chimes across the house.

“Later,” Sherlock says. “We’ll wait until after dinner. I have a hunch something interesting will happen.”

The dining room has been rearranged since the morning. The great long table has vanished, making the room seem twice the size. Instead the room is now lined around the walls with snug little ‘C’ shaped booths, of the sort found in cocktail lounges. Each has it’s own small table, white linen and centerpiece; silverware and glassware twinkling, reading for a cosy meal for two.

‘Christ,’ John thinks at the sight of it. He squeezes in on one side, obliged to tuck his feet under the seat or else get tangled with Sherlock’s long legs under the table. There’s a tiny three-piece band playing, the soft hum of conversation punctuated by the odd laugh. Sherlock eases into the booth opposite him, plucking his ornamentally folded serviette from the table in front of him.

“Fleur de Lis,” he comments, slipping the ring off and unfolding it across his lap.

John grunts a response, mangling his own over his knees. The booth is black behind Sherlock’s shoulders, blending with the dark green of his shirt so that his throat seems so much paler. Sherlock taps at his phone beneath the tablecloth, his eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. John gives another little cough and plies himself with water rather than say anything.

They’re served food in courses; not as extravagant as the night before- there’s even a little menu with a few choices to pick from, but the quality is just as high.

Sherlock picks absently at his plates, moving the food around and mashing it into different shapes so that it looks like at least some has been eaten. John does eat, so he has some excuse not to speak.

Their knees keep bumping under the table and every time they do, John coughs an apology. Sherlock slides one leg out at an angle, away from the table, which causes him to slouch and the vee of his shirt to widen. It doesn’t do much to help.

John drinks a little too fast to compensate for the silence and awkwardness. Glancing across the room affords him tableaus of the other couples. They have no trouble with where to put their knees and hands; some of them sit in silence too, but it’s a comfortable, ground-in silence of a long relationship.

John swallows a lump. It’s been a while, for him. God knows what Sherlock’s been up to in the past, if anything, but John suddenly misses the simplicity of holding someone’s hand. This would be nice, he thinks, if things were different.

He prods at his food, cutting things into increasingly smaller pieces to make them last longer, and then some sixth sense makes him look up. Sherlock’s been watching him.

“What?”

“Just eat it,” Sherlock mutters, looking aside, stiff and pale. There’s something about his posture that gives John pause for thought. It makes him wonder if he’s been a little short-sighted.

John mulls it over through dessert; they can’t just wander off, it seems. Sherlock watches the other people in the room and looks increasingly bored. John drinks and worries at his framboisier, and then finally breaks the silence.

“I want to ask something,” John says.

Sherlock gives a cautious grunt of permission.

“How did you get us in here?”

“Fake identity; made an existing member vouch for me.”

John considers this. The mysterious ‘Michael’ and his ‘office’. He comes to the obvious and off-putting conclusion as to who that might be.

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock inhales so fast with shock that he chokes on his own spit. “What?!” he hisses. His eyebrows fly up and then down in horror at a speed that John’s never seen eyebrows perform before, and then, as the idea permeates further, Sherlock gives an actual, gentle little retch.

John can’t help but burst out laughing.

“Right. Not My-“

“James!”

John remembers belatedly that he shouldn’t say the name out loud, and grins instead. The reaction was worth the awfulness of the idea; it feels like a touch of petty revenge. He lets the feeling steep and satisfy before picking up the topic again.

“Who, then?”

“No one you know. Someone from university.” Sherlock says, looking awkward.

“What, the banker?”

“One of his cronies.” Sherlock sounds like he regrets it utterly. John’s not sure how to interpret that. His mind goes off on several tangential ideas all at once, and he’s certain he doesn’t like any of them.

“And did you…?”

“Did I…?”

“Go to, uh, any…” John gestures to the meal going on around them with a twitch of his head. “Events?”

Sherlock looks out over the middle of the room and makes no answer other than a faint colour rising up the back of his neck. John swallows a mouthful of wine that burns at the back of his throat and stares. He can’t imagine it. He doesn’t _want_ to imagine it. He’d like to know when the hell Sherlock slunk off to engage in… whatever or _whoever_ it was he had to get up to- and as soon as John thinks that, he’s angry.

It’s one thing, he thinks, to sneak around here when they’re together. It’s a dammed other thing to go off behind his back and get himself into who knows what with some Tom, Dick or Harry; no consideration for his own safety or John’s interest or-

“Right,” John says clipped, stabbing his fork into a soft fruit mousse that withers under his fury faster than Sherlock does. “Well. That’s… Clearly you got out of it alright.”

Sherlock looks at him sidelong and wary. Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut on the matter, only saying, very quietly. “Michael’s our client. He sent a message saying one of his old ‘pals’ had been strangled, and he thought there was a connection. He was right. Now shh on the matter.”

John’s hardly listening anyway. He squashes a raspberry like it’s the sole cause of all offence in the room. His own imagination is taunting him.

“James,” Sherlock says, twice, and then when he gets no reaction and low enough not to be overheard, John’s real name.

John looks up.

“I think the pudding has surrendered.”

Startled at the mess on his plate, John hastily puts his fork down.

“Try and act natural.”

“I was,” John mutters under his breath.

“Then try and be unnatural.”

“How do I do that?”

“Do the opposite,” Sherlock suggests, irked. “I need the toilet. Stay there.”

He gets up and slopes away, leaving John to stew at the table. A waiter comes and clears the dishes, making no comment but clearly looking at the mess John’s made of the raspberry cake. “It was too sweet,” John says, point blank. “And I don’t like layers.”

“Noted,” says the waiter, and scurries away.

Dinner over, the level of conversation rises. People start to get up and mingle, or huddle closer in their banquettes, getting oozy over the stickies. John waves away the pudding wines- he’s not in the mood. The band changes their tone and the lighting takes a dip down to sultry.

After a moment, one couple ventures out of their seats to the floor. Then a second.

John watches them dancing, unabashed, clearly having a good time. One of them could be a murderer, but he supposes that doesn’t discount the ability to have a good time dancing.

Sherlock returns, drying his hands on his handkerchief. Act the opposite, he’d said, and to be honest, John would like to know more about the case with less risk of being overheard. He’s sick of playing pretend. He’s sick at always being the one on the hop.

“Want to dance?”

Sherlock’s head jerks around to look at him in such pure astonishment that John wishes he had a camera on him. He steels himself. “Come on. It’s couple’s night, isn’t it? We patched things up this afternoon. Dance with me.”

He holds out a hand, and while the blind calm panic in his head means that he holds it out like he’s expecting a business handshake, he still holds it out. Sherlock stares at it like he’s flopped roadkill onto the table.

John stands up.

As if on autopilot (although John suspects that’s not far from the truth), Sherlock does the same, and they shuffle onto the very edge of the dance floor, where they find themselves with too many arms and too many legs and no idea where to put them.

John flinches as Sherlock’s hand touches his waist. Their other hands take three attempts at waving in mid air before finding a place to meet. It occurs to John that he has no idea what kind of music this is or how he’s supposed to dance to it, and yet it does not occur to him to accede the man’s side of the dance to someone who might.

They resort to the dance of all awkward new couples, with space for Jesus between them, and shuffling in a vague circle.

“So,” John says, once they’ve done four revolutions and it feels easier. “Who was the first victim.”

Sherlock’s eyes close for a second with a flutter and then he says, “Lewis Maybury. Strangled in his own home, made to look like a sex game gone wrong, but the scene was far too clean.”

“Right, and who did he know from this lot?”

“Presumably a lot of them. He was well involved in the club as far as I can tell.”

“Unhelpful,” John mutters.

He’s about to ask something more when another couple passes by, almost bumping them.

“Sorry,” Eric says, shimmying his partner around out of the way. Tarquin grins at them, tipsy again. “No brakes on this one.” He laughs, and even as Eric tries to propel him into an emptier part of the dance floor, his hands drop down to squeeze Eric’s bottom.

“I’ve not seen that man sober once,” John comments.

“No. Curious that,” Sherlock says. The music slows and intensifies, too loud for them to talk. They sway, avoiding eye contact. John curls his hand so that his palm isn’t pressed against Sherlock- he’s sweating. In the corner of his eye, he sees the other man’s Adam’s apple bob, and he can guess what he’s thinking about.

John’s thinking about it too.

It was so _short_. That’s what gets to John. How’s he supposed to make up his mind or figure it out with so little to go on. Something they were faking. He could fake it again, he supposes. For the case. They might have to. They’re supposed to have made up and be back together and John’s been in enough shaky relationships to know that shuffling around a dance floor like this isn’t going to be that convincing. Worse, Joseph and George, and Eric know who he and Sherlock are. They might assume the relationship’s fake, or perhaps they think that’s the one real thing about their presence here.

Even John’s not sure which it is anymore.

Speak of the devil.

They let go as the song ends, and Joseph nods at them from his seat. He’s swapped the wad of bandages for a more manageable gauze pad, which covers the wound on his forehead. George sits between him and the open room, protective.

“How’s your head?” John asks.

“He’s not had any complaints,” Eric says, startling the hell out of him.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just no booze this evening, and an early night.”

“Probably wise.”

“Bear in mind what I said earlier though,” Joseph adds, darkly. “I meant it.”

“You need to rest,” George insists.

“And we’d better not discuss things here; this is meant to be a party.” Eric adds, glancing around, and he has a point, because someone else has spotted the little group and decided to pass by already.

“Gentlemen. Making friends?”

“Yes, it’s what popular people do,” Joseph throws back.

Douglas inclines his head, his face a picture of sympathy. “I heard you were found passed out on the bathroom floor this morning. Dear me, are you ok?”

Joseph is taken aback and suspicious of this friendliness. “Yes, fine.”

“Oh, how good to know. Well, when you’ve had as much practice-“

Eric turns. “Douglas, I will make you eat your own hands. Go away,”

“Feel better,” Douglas says, insincerely, and swans off. George narrows his eyes.

“Asshole,” Eric says, feelingly. “I don’t know what his problem is.”

“Hm,” says Sherlock. John glances at him. That sounded like a deduction type of ‘hm’. John steps back from the conversation in his head and thinks things over quickly. Douglas hates Joseph and the feeling seems to be totally mutual. John supposes he can dismiss Tarquin from the equation; the man’s barely been upright for more than 15 minutes at a stretch. Carlton seemed to ping something on Sherlock’s radar, and instinctively, John dislikes Albert. On the other hand, Albert’s sparsely built. He can’t imagine him being able to overpower someone in order to strangle him. And logically he’s too short to be able to smack Joseph on the head.

What the hell is going on?

Sherlock had let him look at the microphone during the afternoon too. Short range, he’d said, short battery life. Which meant there had to be somewhere to pick up the signal from, and someone had to be swapping them around over the course of the weekend.

“Don’t frown, dear.”

“Sorry, what?” John stares at Sherlock. He’s about to open his mouth and ask ‘did you just call me _dear_?’ when Joseph interrupts.

“You’ve been stood there with a face like thunder for the past however long. Any luck?” he adds, more quietly.

“Some,” Sherlock says. “Later. I think we’re going to turn in early. James is tired.”

John takes a moment to get the idea. “Oh, um. Yeah.”

“Well. Goodnight,” George says. “Sleep well.”

“But fuck quietly. We’re in the next room and I’ve got a headache,” Joseph adds. He points to his head and mouths, silently. ‘And catch that bastard.”

Outside in the hallway, Sherlock is all business again. “Outbuildings,” he says to John, “attic and basement. There can only be limited places to set up radio operations.”

“So we go looking?”

Sherlock’s smile turns crooked. “We go looking.”

___  
___

They traverse all over the house, top to bottom. The attic, once they find a way to break into it, is full of insulation foam and dust. The basement, after they find a way to sneak into it through the kitchen, is well stocked with bottles of some interesting vintages, but no radio monitoring equipment.

Sherlock hits his own thigh in frustration and takes them outside. They systematically work their way around but the little shed of equipment for the tennis courts, the larger one for the gardener, and the changing rooms reveal nothing. They finish the tour in the swimming pool area, which for a moment seems promising around the pipes. There’s something in the configuration that seems strange, and on a closer look they do find a partly hidden room, but it turns out to be nothing more than a backup generator and boiler for the complex.

“Think!” Sherlock says, turning on his heel in a perfect circle. “It must be somewhere.”

“What about a van or something, in the car park?”

They check and unearth nothing. Sherlock throws his hands up in disgust.

“No good,” John says, “It’s gone to earth somewhere.”

“That’s it!” Without hesitating, Sherlock’s off, racing round the side of the house. John has to scrabble to keep up. They leave footprints in the dew on the lawn, Sherlock stomping in circles until he finds it.

“Here-!” he says with satisfaction. There’s a circular manhole in the grass; a big brown metal cover, embossed with ‘water main’ over the top, except by Sherlock’s new reckoning, no pipes actually run this way. Looking at it closely, John can see that a new padlock has been added, which now seems suspicious.

“Wouldn’t have thought of this,” he comments, which earns him a snort from Sherlock.

“I think that’s why he did it.”

It takes them awhile, but Sherlock picks the lock on it. He points out the divot in the ground where it’s been frequently thrown open, and between the two of them, they heave the lid back. There’s a dim light below, blueish in colour, which gives John a glimpse of a swivel chair below them. There’s a smell of stale air too.

“He’d have brought down a crowbar from the house,” Sherlock points out. He feels around and drops a rickety folding ladder down to the floor, and then clambers down into the darkness below.

John follows more slowly, glancing back at the house before setting foot on the ladder. It’s quiet up there; and there are barely any lights lit across the front now. On the one hand that seems to indicate that no one has noticed them skulking around the grounds. On the other hand, no one would notice if they got into trouble either. From this distance, with the camber of the lawn and the flatness of the cover, it would be impossible to see at first glance if it was open or not. Never mind that the intermittent trees provide a bit of a screen.

“John-?” Sherlock says from below.

“I’m coming. Let’s not take too long about this,” John says, and climbs down into the vault.

It’s snug- with his arms outstretched, Sherlock could touch both walls at the same time, and the facilities are basic. The wall on one side is a bank of fuzzy security video patched in from around the grounds and house, providing the only light. Sherlock feels around and finds a torch. It flickers on and shows the other wall, covered in files.

“Oh, we have been busy.”

“There’re names on these. Here-“ John pulls one out and passes it to Sherlock, the spine labelled ‘Maybury’ in large letters. The contents are prolific. There’s a CD copy of audio recording, and a printout with the highlights. John reads a little of it, and clears his throat. “So. Blackmail.”

“List of contacts, list of correspondence. Wall was making a good business of this.”

“Wall?”

“Who else? As housekeeper, he had access to all the rooms and an excuse to enter them. One bug placed under the sink and another under the bed would collect enough embarrassing soundbites to keep his victims on the edge. Not to mention any private phone calls made between rendezvous in the room, or unwise pillow talk.”

“Gimme your money, or I’ll out you as a pervert,” John précis darkly. He supposes it makes sense. He recalls the man appearing on and off throughout the day, a silent presence in a white jacket. He’d taken the car keys off of them when they’d arrived. He’d hovered around the table at dinner, organising the staff, and given John his room key. “Why kill Maybury though? Stop paying up?”

“No,” Sherlock says slowly, reading the file. “He payed just a few days before his death.”

“Just sick?”

“Possibly…”

John turns back to the wall of files. “I’m here,” he reports, tapping ‘Sigerson. J’, which is empty. He pauses. There’s a second one right next to it, marked ‘Sigerson. S’. John stares at it.

“Sherlock, are we married?”

Sherlock looks up from the file he’s reading, and looks a touch awkward. “I thought one name would be easier to remember than two…”

“We’re married,” John concludes, staring at the lettering on the files. He’s only half listening to Sherlock and what he’s hearing sounds to him rather like a lie, and it makes for a weird feeling deep in his belly. “I don’t remember being asked,” he says, his own voice sounding distant and petulant.

Sherlock grumbles, which doesn’t sound genuine either, and finds refuge in derision.

“We had a lovely engagement and a quiet wedding in Scotland.”

John’s temper flares. “Oh, good. I’m sure I had a sodding brilliant day.”

“John.”

“Oh, shut up and solve the bloody crime,” John grouches, shoving the Sigerson files back into place and moving along the shelf. He picks up another, larger file, and is surprised by the name on the spine.

Carlton. So he was being blackmailed too?

John opens the file and reads a vicious circle of evidence. Pressured by blackmail into assisting Wall with his operations, Carlton had faulted on his own relationships, gone through a string of mistakes and turned to drink. For which Wall blackmailed him further. Almost all his assets were in Wall’s name. God, John thinks, it’s manipulative. There are debts that Wall paid off, no doubt to secure Carlton even further under his thumb.

It’s sordid.

There’s one more file that catches John’s eye. The only one with the initial ‘M’. The mysterious Michael the banking crony. He flicks through it, and then against his best judgement, opens his mouth.

“So. What were the other events like?”

Sherlock glances at him, frowning slightly.

“You said you went to other events. I mean. Didn’t you get any clues there?”

“Evidently not. I couldn’t integrate enough,” he adds.

“Oh.” John considers this fact in moody silence for a moment. “Of course. I mean, obviously you didn’t… you know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, not looking up from his phone. His tone is clipped, like he’s rattling out a deduction without any immediate interest in the world. “I did. Several of them, several times and I’m not inclined to tell you any further detail, because, bluntly put, it’s none of your business, as you’ve taken pains to make it so patently clear.”

“Huh.” John says. He’s about one step from devolving to dragging his schoolbag along the floor and kicking at the desks in sulky fury. “Alright, fine. I don’t want to know.”

He does. He desperately wants to know, if only because he’s curious to the point of actual, physical pain. All that faff with Irene, for example, and it had been clear that Sherlock had gotten worked up by her on some level or other. John can’t figure it out. He’s never been able to figure it out, and now he’s supposed to buy that Sherlock purposefully went off on some secret sexcapade behind his back with _multiple_ unknown men?

And then married him without asking.

John finds himself offended more by this than the whole of the rest put together. He shuts the folder with a clap and shoves it back on the shelf.

“You can’t marry me without asking.”

Sherlock surfaces from his phone, taken aback.

“What?”

“You can’t sodding marry me, without asking. You have to ask. That’s how it works,” John argues. And it’s nonsense, he knows it’s nonsense, but for some reason this feels like a point of principle that he can stick to, whereas everything else feels more intangible.

_It’s none of your business._

Well, this bit is, John thinks, irrationally jealous. This, at least, he should have a say in, shouldn’t he?

“You have to ask,” he repeats. “Why do you never just _ask_ me?”

“It’s fake, John. I didn’t actually…get bans.”

“I’ll give you bans,” John chuffs, pointing a finger at him. He has no idea what he means, or why he’s so pissed off. He thinks he has a right to be, but deep down he also wonders if that’s true. He has no idea what he’s going to do next. They’re having two different conversations again.

Before he gets a chance to do anything, Sherlock freezes.

_What?_

And then John notices it too- a shadow has fallen across his face. As one they look up. The man is indistinct and dark without the brilliance of his jacket. He looks down at them; the pale light of the TV screens only reaching far enough to make his eyes seem to glitter and then wordlessly he reaches down.

“Stop him!” Sherlock yells. John reaches for his gun, but the angle is wrong and even as he puts his hand on the butt of it, Wall moves out of shot and heaves.

There’s a slam that makes their ears ring, and then a prompt and final little click. click. The shadows deepen. John automatically stoops to provides a foot rest for Sherlock to scrabble up, bypassing the ladder, and push at the hatch.

Sherlock thumps on it with the flat of his fist and it gongs hollowly, but nothing else happens. He shoves hard up with both hands and then John grunts to warn him that he can’t hold him up any longer.

Sherlock drops back to the floor.

“It’s locked,” he says, needlessly.

____  
____

The worst thing is the heat. There’s little to no internal ventilation in the vault, for that is what it is, and the seal of the hatch is absolute. John’s skin prickles with sweat and he’s already tugged off his sweater. The monitors throw off heat, making the situation worse, and though logic dictates that there must be ventilation for the computers so that they don’t overheat, it’s somewhere in the wall behind the monitors, cooling them from behind without making much effect on the room itself.

“What a stupid set up!” Sherlock explodes, throwing himself down in the one and only chair. “Who designed this?”

“A serial blackmailer and murderer,” John points out, exhausted. “Think of something.”

“I’m thinking!”

Sherlock lapses into silence, feet up on the monitors, hands under his nose, scowling at the CCTV yet lost deep in his mind. John, sitting on the floor, busies himself by looking around for something to use as a battering ram. There’s a fire-extinguisher, but he’s not sure in the case of hatch v extinguisher, the extinguisher would come out on top, and the last thing they need to do is to fill the place with foam.

He unbuttons the collar of his shirt and sweats. The torch flickers as the battery starts to die. John stares at the hatch and tries to will it to open. When this doesn’t work and Sherlock doesn’t move, he reverts to listing the bones of the human body in his head. It’s airless. It already feels stale.

God, he hopes he’s not going to actually die suffocating, surrounded by sex files.

After more than an hour, Sherlock’s heels slip to the floor.

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Yes, you can. Try again.”

“I’ve tried,” Sherlock says, looking at the toes of his shoes. “I can’t think of a way to fix things.”

“Just think again,” John insists, peevish from the heat. “It’s your fault we’re in this stupid mess in the first place.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock says, low. John pivots his head towards him, his frown slowly changing from petty annoyance to concern.

“Forgive me, John. On reflection, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

The admission itself douses any of John’s lingering annoyance at once, and concern turns to actual worry. “What do you mean?”

“This case. The lies. All of it. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s looking at his own empty hands, the side of his face poorly lit by the CCTV screens, making his skin look tight and grey. His lips are pressed hard together. John’s heart thumps.

“Well, it wasn’t a good idea not telling me anything, no, but it’s not so bad.”

“I can’t get us out of this, John.”

John pulls himself heavily to his feet. “Yes, you can. That’s what you do. You get us into messes but you always get us out again.”

“Please,” Sherlock is cynical. “Twice now, I’ve resorted to fatal tactics.”

This is not something John can deny without lying. Sherlock has a bad habit of starting things he can’t finish alone, and getting himself edged into a corner. He slumps in the chair, rubbing at his mouth, hangdog. John flusters. He can’t sincerely mean that they’re trapped in here to run out of air. He supposes there’s little chance anyone’s noticed they’re missing. All the murdering bastard has to do is come back for the bodies at his own convenience.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t.” John insists, “Don’t you give up on me. Fix this, Sherlock.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. Figure it out. Maybe if we both push…”

Sherlock looks up, expression clouded over. John has to hold himself back from shaking him. “Fuck! Oh, Jesus.”

John leans against the wall, rubbing at his forehead. It’s too hot to breathe. He undoes more of his shirt and flaps the sides, which earns him a little relief and a look from Sherlock.

“Don’t give me that. God, you couldn’t have gotten us blown up? Something quick? I don’t want to do this.”

“I’m not too keen on the idea either.”

“I could have done more,” John says, staring into the short remainder of his life and hating it. “Do things. God, if we get out of here, I’m not wasting any more time.”

Sherlock smiles, contrite and humourless. “Have wasted rather a lot,” he agrees. “Too late now.”

Too late? John supposes it is. He’s got no signal on his phone and even if he had, he doesn’t know what he’d do with it. Tell someone, he supposes. One last cry out to the world that he had lived. Tell Harry he forgave her. Tell Mrs. Hudson to look after herself. Tell Lestrade thanks and sorry he’d been a shit friend.

Even that doesn’t seem that important.

“Christ. Listen. It’s alright. I’m not…angry. Just so you know. How long have we got?”

“An hour more, maybe.”

“Fuck. Ok. Ok, an hour. We can manage an hour.”

“To do what?” Sherlock asks, hollowly.

“Sit on the floor together,” John says. “Go on. That’s my last request. Sit on the floor with me.” He’s already a touch dizzy, and there’s only one chair. He’ll forgive Sherlock but he’s damned if he’s letting him have the chair. Clumsily, Sherlock scoots himself onto the floor and shuffles into the narrow space beside him. His arm is hot against John’s, but he lets it be. It’s not going to be for long.

They sit and sweat for a moment, and then John, with the tick of his watch in his ears, asks. “What’s yours?”

“Hm?”

“Your last request?”

“This. Same. This.”

“This? Oh. Good. I’m glad. I can do this. I’m an expert at this.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Bloody stupid last words,” John says and then, “Sorry.”

They lapse into silence again and then John, his mind running disjointedly comments. “You could just ask me.”

Sherlock, nodding, jerks to look at him. His expression wavers for a moment and then his whole person seems to subside. “Could I?”

It’s dim, out of the direct glare of the TV screens; the torch is flickering more insistently and could die at any moment. John swallows. His mouth is dry. The line of Sherlock’s body is heat against the line of his own, and Sherlock’s got that raw look in his eyes again, and this time can’t hurry it away with something else.

“It’s a bit much… isn’t it?” John murmurs.

Sherlock’s hands are curled into the front of his shirt. He forces them loose. John’s eyes flick back and forth, left to right, reading his face and despite the lack of air making it hard to think, or perhaps because of that, the truth dawns over John.

“Oh,” he says, softly.

“Cowardice,” Sherlock says, quietly.

_That’s why I never ask._

Sherlock can’t say anything more. John shifts, props one knee up, thinking. He turns his face back. Sherlock hasn’t moved. John feels the time trickling away between them, and it makes him suddenly and deeply saddened.

“You’re not a coward,” he says. “Don’t think that. I don’t think you’re a coward.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifts in wry, disbelieving sort of smile, his eyes slipping away from John’s face, looking for something else. A joke, probably, John realises, heart sinking because they’ve done this before, and he made him laugh and Sherlock has never been a girl’s name.

_Why am I waiting to be asked?_

He does laugh at that; at the irony. Then he reaches out and takes one of Sherlock’s wrinkled lapels into his grasp.

“Sherlock Holmes, I’m going to kiss you and if…if it isn’t ok,” John hesitates, not as cocksure as he’s trying to sound. “Well, just kiss me,” he breathes and then brings them together.

It’s only a bit more accomplished than their first kiss. The angle is odd, thanks to the way Sherlock’s sitting squashed against a fire extinguisher. Sherlock’s hands, in contrast, wave around in the air by John’s ears, trying to decide where to go, and then eventually become bold and touch gently to the corners of his jaw.

He does not punch John; it would have surprised John if he had. Instead his fingers meet around the back of John’s neck, relaxed against his scalp, sending a tingle down the length of John’s spine, and they kiss.

The room is literally airless, and they’re panting and sweating for the wrong reasons, but it’s difficult to care.

“I’m going to kiss you,” John says again, their foreheads tacky against each other. “I’m going to kiss you.”

He can think of far worse ways to go.

——

There’s a bang from above that makes them jump, and then another that makes them scrabble like drunks to their feet. John looks at Sherlock in the failing light of the torch.

There’s someone up there.

Friend? Or Foe?

“Hello!?” John bellows, voice hoarse with dehydration. “Down here!”

A pause and a scuffle and then a crack of blinding light sends them recoiling as the hatch lifts a fraction. A waft of welcomely cold air rushes in. Someone grunts with effort and the crack widens, and then there’s a heavy thump as the hatch falls solidly to one side.

A face appears through the hole, obscured by the bright sunlight behind them.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“You?”

“Me,” agrees the flautist. He pushes down a stepladder. “If you could hurry up out of there, I believe we need to discuss the developments you’ve missed.”

Sherlock claws up the ladder into the dawn. The grass is speckled with dew, the house quiet behind them. John follows, not caring that the wet soaks into his clothes. It’s beautiful and fresh after the cloying heat of the vault. The flautist, quite calmly, waits five minutes for them to recoup some oxygen and sense.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock says finally.

“How the hell did you know we were down there?” John wants to know.

“I assumed you were busy somewhere on the grounds when you’d not returned, and when Wall’s body turned up and you didn’t appear, I went looking. I apologise, it took me a little longer than you to work out the location. I expect you’d like a drink of water.”

“Wall’s _body_?” John repeats.

Sherlock, sitting in the damp, points at him accusingly. “You work for the Swiss.”

The older man smiles. “Something like that. Let’s not discuss my employer- my case has ended with Wall’s death.”

John holds up a hand. “Wall is dead? How? Since when?”

“Last night. Strangled, and yes, because living people rarely lie face down on the bottom of a swimming pool for hours at a time. Especially without a tank.”

“Are you a spy?” John asks.

“Really, John. He’s an undercover private investigator.”

“Course he is. Stupid me,” John mutters, finding his feet. The house is hardly 500 yards away. It feels like miles. He stretches and groans, putting out a hand to pull Sherlock up. “Water,” he says, firmly.

“Not as much as Wall got, but yes. Let’s patch you up,” suggests the flautist, “And then I’ll take my blackmailer and you can catch your killer.”

_____  
_____

The body has been left, on the flautist’s advice, at the bottom of the pool until the authorities can be bought in. As he has rationalised, it won’t do the man any more harm at this point. Carlton, having no choice in the matter, has had the gates to the grounds shut and the garage locked. For now, at least, no one can leave and no one can get in.

The flautist leaves them at their room to recover, which for John means lying flat on the bed chugging as much water as his stomach can handle, and for Sherlock, half drowning himself in a hot shower. At some point, they intend to swap. At the moment, this much is bliss.

It’s as he’s lying there, that Joseph sticks his head around the door.

“Good God, where have you been? The housekeeper’s been killed and you look like you’ve been poorly dry-cleaned. And you smell.”

John slowly leans up on one elbow. The other man, for someone who was squealing and bleeding like a stuck pig this time yesterday, is looking annoyingly chipper. “Yeah, I’m fine thanks. Still alive.”

“Oh, did someone try and kill you too?”

“Funnily enough, yes.”

Joseph leans on the door, frowning. “How rude. Clearly they didn’t try as hard as they did with Wall, though. Have you caught them?”

“Nearly,” John says, emptying his glass. “And it was Wall.”

“He killed himself?”

“No, Sherlock’ll explain.”

“Yes, where is he?”

John sits there for five seconds with his eyes closed and reminds himself, over the noise of the shower, that not everyone is Sherlock Holmes.

“Seeing Carlton about something. Stay around downstairs in the open. I expect it won’t be long before we call the police.”

“How delightful. And Sherlock is alright?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. No harm done.”

“Good. And you’re alright?”

He looks like he’s been poorly dry-cleaned, and he smells, and he could honestly drink about three more bottles of water and pee a gallon, but John concludes, he’s really quite alright. He’s alive, which is brilliant for one thing, and they’ve got a whole afternoon left to collar a murderer who must still be on the premises, which is also pretty satisfying, and he kissed Sherlock before either of them died, which is plain unbelievable, though what’s going to happen now that they’re not headed for the oblivion of death is a worry he hasn’t the resources to contemplate yet.

He digs deep and finds a word to sum it all up with.

“I’m fine. How are your stitches?”

Joseph touches the gauze. “Speaking as a tailor, I would have preferred an invisible seam, but I’ll make do.” The shower stops and it’s quiet for a moment.

“May I say something?” Joseph asks, folding his hands behind his back.

John shrugs.

“When we first met, George was everything I was looking for. Works in London, responsible, not -too- gay; he likes fine art. No interest in children or- well, he was perfect. Thinks the world of me. I honestly think he’d move mountains for me… and yet,” Joseph sighs. “He’s so terribly boring.”

“Um,” John says.

“And I have no idea how to end things, because there’s nothing particularly wrong with our relationship, and it could go on. He’s reliable. He’d be the one hovering around when I’m old, reminding me to put my glasses on and… I think I would hate him for it.”

“Right,” John says, baffled.

“So I convinced him to do things like this club, and bless him, he’s willing to do it, because he knows I get bored. How can I still complain?”

“But you fancy Eric.”

“Eric is an utter pain in the backside. He’s ignorant and flamboyant and I have no idea how he got through the military, and he calls me ‘Joe’, and I couldn’t live with him even if we lived in a house like this, and lived on opposite sides of it. But…since yesterday I’ve been… thinking about it.”

“Right?” John hazards again, awkwardly.

“And I wonder, why on earth you don’t just… Why on Earth aren’t you two together?”

“Well…” John says, avoiding Joseph’s eye. “Sounds like you should get with Eric then.”

Joseph’s eyes narrow. The shower room is very very quiet. John feels a faint prickle of sweat down the back of his neck and so help him, he really does need to pee.

“John Watson,” Joseph says, suspicious, “Have I just bared my soul and wasted a pep talk?”

“I mean, I agree he’s annoying but he’s more interesting than George.”

“I can’t believe you! I thought you were pining. Dying of jealous tension,” Joseph complains. “I was trying to be charitably good to new gays and you’ve gone ahead and hooked up already. Honestly, why do I bother?”

“Thank you, Joseph,” John says humourlessly. “You can stop now.”

“I will. Well, congratulations. Bear me in mind when you need matching suits. I’ll do you a discount.”

“Go away.”

Joseph laughs and then sobers, and he still won’t leave, hovering around the doorway. Sherlock still doesn’t emerge from the bathroom.

“Go shut yourself in your room for half an hour,” John suggests. “We’ll come get you when we go downstairs.”

Joseph nearly sags in relief, the edge to his humour fading entirely, and the bags under his eyes showing more prominently. “Are you sure? Will you?”

“Yes,” John says. “Bugger off. You’ll be fine for 30 minutes while I change my pants.”

“I could stay and help,”

“Out!”

Joseph scuttles away, a bag of nerves. John closes the door, and wonders if it _is_ safe, with a strangler on the loose, and how surreal it is to remember that normal people get unnerved by these things.

“Come out of there,” he adds, and the bathroom door creaks open a fraction. One bit at a time, Sherlock emerges. He’s staring into sub-space, mind gone off on a whirlwind of deduction.

“What?”

“Protective,” Sherlock says, hair dripping onto the carpet without him even noticing.

“Who? George?”

“Hm.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh….” Sherlock’s eyes glitter. “Get dressed,” he says, with sudden focus. “We’re going to see Carlton.”

_____  
_____

They find Carlton in the dining room, slopping from a decanter into a glass. Albert occupies one of the corner seats, watching him dubiously. Joseph hovers on their heels. George had opted to stay in the room, complaining of a headache.

“He gets them sometimes,” Joseph had commented, closing the door.

Carlton watches them approach, wearily.

“Bloody awful,” he comments and then bursts out with, “What are you doing?” when Sherlock forces the glass from his damp fingers.

“You’ve had enough of that,” Sherlock says, flatly. He flashes a shark-like and insincere smile and John’s belly does a little fond flop at the sight of it. “Good news. The police are on their way, so all we need to do is decide what we’re going to tell them about your little hobbies and then keep things quiet until they arrive, don’t we?”

“No, we don’t,” Albert cuts in, dripping with sarcasm. “This whole thing’s been a farce. We’re a bunch of flamboyant rich people in a country house, with one dead body and two attempted murders, and no less than two detectives and a sidekick in disguise. What we do, is gather everyone in the drawing room while Hercule here tells us all about it.” He whisks his finger at Sherlock, and rolls his eyes.

“I’m not a sodding sidekick, thanks,” John argues. No one is listening. He opens his mouth to say it louder.

“Very well,” Sherlock agrees, cutting off John’s apoplexy.

“I wasn’t being serious,” Albert argues.

“Well, why not,” Joseph points out. “I want answers. As soon as the police arrive it’ll go hush-hush until we get to court. I say let’s Christie it. I’ll go get George. Albert, stop being a little prig and go get the rest.”

“Just say it’s a club meeting,” Carlton says faintly, still shell-shocked by the whole proceedings. His hands are shaking.

____

Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, around which the guests are scattered. Carlton, holding tight to a glass of water. Albert and Miles on the love-seat. John by the door, hands behind his back. Eric sprawls on a chair turned backward in a trio with Joseph and George.

Douglas Reeve, the lawyer, and Henry from room 304. The Flautist, and the banker John recalls from dinner on the first night, who has kept a low profile since then. Tarquin, nursing a terrible hangover. Harry, and six remaining men whose names John can’t remember properly lurk, looking unnerved.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Sherlock beings. He points at Tarquin. “How’s your head?” Across the room, Joseph treads on Eric’s foot.

“I expect you don’t remember much of the first night here; unsurprising given you were drugged. No, nothing terrible. A little hurry-up to get you good and drunk and keep you so for a long time. Keep you out of trouble- I’ve used the same ruse myself to get a quiet night.”

John straightens in his chair. Sherlock catches his gaze.

_That true?_

A faint nod. Something in John soars, suddenly free of jealousy. Mickey in the night cap-! Sherlock had even bloody well told him! He feels foolish now. It’s obvious Sherlock would contrive something to get out of having to deal with strangers he has no interest in. It seems silly to think otherwise. Something else occurs to John too, but Sherlock continues.

“At any rate, we can excuse you from suspicions, thanks to our European friend here.” He indicates the flautist. “You found and removed the recording devices in your room to doctor them. Took you a little time, I believe, as you were late returning to your room and Wall nearly got there first. Luckily for you, John and I were staging a farce that delayed him. Now, mentioning no names, of course, you came to investigate the blackmail. No doubt on behalf of the company of the first victim, Lewis Maybury.”

“Not inaccurate,” the flautist concedes. “There was concern about what information might have been left… floating around in the wrong hands, shall we say? Lewis talked a lot on his phone in his room. I came to identify the threat and take back the blackmail material. If possible, expose the ringleader and shut it down, but that was not the priority.”

“Which brings us to our perpetrator, the clever Mr Wall. A straight-forward seeming operation for him; plant the bugs, go in as soon as possible in the morning to retrieve them, process them in his vault, blackmail and repeat.”

“Bastard-!” someone mutters. Douglas, John notes. Sherlock does too.

“Yes, he got to you, didn’t he. You called off your fling as a result.”

“What do you know about it,” Douglas sneers, wounded. “And it wasn’t a fling.” He looks at Eric. “It wasn’t.”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t?” Eric says, lost. “We just hooked up. I didn’t think you were serious…”

“Leaving your ridiculous jealousy aside,” Sherlock breaks in, about to postulate further. There are blank looks around the room, however and at John’s gesture, he huffs. “Oh, for god’s sakes. Douglas likes Eric. Eric likes Joseph, Joseph likes George. You’re all idiots. _As I was saying-_ Wall had a problem. He gets tipped off.”

John looks at each face as each name is named. George alone seems unbothered by the news, though a moment later, Joseph ducks his head towards him and murmurs something along the lines of ‘don’t hold so tight’.

“One of us,” Sherlock goes on, ”This time, is a spy. One of us is a detective. He works out my identity first- my bad, should have tried harder. He notices someone’s been through the office, and correctly believes someone is onto him. He finds my name and goes to the room he knows I’ve slept in, yet finds someone else feeling around the sink.”

“Joe!” Eric blurts, raising his hand.

“You,” Sherlock agrees, nodding at Joseph. “And he panics. Lashes out. And there it all goes wrong. Because he knows about the spy, and he knew about me, but he didn’t know about the killer.”

Sherlock’s showboating and John hasn’t got the heart to stop him. He keeps one eye on the door, though, in case someone bolts or worse, tries to lynch Sherlock or, he supposes, anyone else. After the weekend he’s had, he’s rather in the mood for a fight. He’s going to be disappointed, however.

“Funny, wouldn’t you say,” Sherlock says, softly, approaching Joseph. “For someone so single-mindedly protective of his lover to let him wander around alone when there’s a known murderer at large.”

George regards him calmly.

Heads around the room start to focus on him, Joseph sits back in alarm, looking back and forth between Sherlock and the man next to him.

“What are you saying?”

“You’re a patient man usually, George. Wall got the best of your temper.”

“Yes,” George admits. “He did rather anger me.”

“Oh my God.” Joseph wriggles free of Georges frozen arm, almost squirming off of his seat into Eric’s lap. “Oh my god! You’ve been killing people?!”

George looks put upon. “For you,” he says, with cold clarity. “It’s very testing being your boyfriend, you know. They all take advantage. I can’t be having with that.”

“The police are coming,” Sherlock says.

George doesn’t seem to hear him for a moment, eyes fixed on Joseph. Then he says, “Do you mind if I wait somewhere else? I’ve got an awful headache. I’ll go to my room.” He stands up, and seems to look at Sherlock for permission. Puzzled, Sherlock looks at John.

_He’s mad._

_He’s ill._

“How about one of the lounges?” John suggests, raising both eyebrows at Sherlock. “You can lie down on one of the sofas.”

“That’ll do. Joseph?”

There’s a tense pause and then Joseph manages, faintly. “I’ll come see you in a minute.”

And then it’s all over, except for the uproar.  
____  
____

By mid-afternoon, they’re leaning on the front steps again, looking out across the garden. The front drive is awash with police cars and vans as they fish Wall’s body out of the pool and collect statements. John and Sherlock, by merit of mere familiarity, skipped the queue and went first. The rest are still inside.

An ambulance with sirens off, full up with two police officers and poor old George, has already left. Joseph, unsurprisingly, has not gone with him. The last John had seen, he’d been sat talking to a police officer, Eric’s arm around his shoulders.

‘Funny how it all worked out,’ John thinks. Medically speaking, he’ll be interested to hear if they make anything of George’s headaches, or if the man was just plain warped to begin with. According to Joseph, other things have started to tally up, which he’d known but hadn’t connected the dots with. As Sherlock had colourfully summarised ‘Love makes people stupid.’

It’s in this vein that John is thinking; putting together the things he missed, or ignored on purpose. Presently, he speaks.

“What was the get-out clause?”

“Hm?” Sherlock drags his attention away from the vault on the lawn, which is slowly vanishing under a little marquee. More tents are popping up here and there, like mushrooms. There’s going to be a lot of boring evidence to sift.

“When I asked you how you would get out of your evening that first night, you said there was always the ‘get-out clause’. What did you mean?”

“Oh. Yes…” Sherlock squirms. “That.” He clears his throat.

“That embarrassing?”

“I was going to lie, and say… I’d rather be with,” he coughs.

“Sorry?”

“You heard.”

“I didn’t. I can guess, but I think I want to hear it.”

“I said it clearly. Perhaps you’re suffering early onset deafness-”

John thumps Sherlock in the arm.

“Ow,” Sherlock protests, and then he has to squirm out of the way because John has a gleam of retribution in his eye.

“I had to fight off a very camp American for you. Don’t you give me ‘ow’.”

“Boyfriend.”

John pauses and takes a moment to parse Sherlock’s sentence in full. “You were going to lie and say you’d rather be with your boyfriend, who was, in fact… me.”

“Well, don’t say it like that. Now it sounds mushy.”

John doesn’t care. He feels mushy. It’s not even based on a situation that’s remotely real. It was fake Scott Sigerson wanting to be with his fake partner, fake James Sigerson.

“Husband,” John says. “We were fake married, remember.”

“Not _openly_ ,” Sherlock protests. “It was a swinger’s event.”

“You said we had a lovely engagement!”

“Yes. Well. It was a bit private. The marriage was very nice?”

“It’s not bad,” John admits, and watches in total fascination as Sherlock slowly colours. “The communication’s are a mess, but the rest is decent.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Did you actually use that? Is that what you said to Joseph when you were coming down the stairs.”

“Hm.”

John grins. “You did.” He looks back across the garden and the back and forth stream of forensics going in and out of the swimming pool outbuildings like white ants. He mulls things over for a moment.

“So, we’re married. We live together. We’ve broken up and had sex and got back together…You’ve not left me much to do for this relationship.”

“Sorry.”

“Let’s go on a date.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s when two married people both refuse to cook, and are sick of takeaway, so they say ‘sod it’ and go out to eat.”

Sherlock stands still, mind whirling with sudden and new possibilities. “Oh. Yes. Ok.”

“Good.” John drums a little beat on the stonework. “How are we getting home?”

Sherlock leans over the railing to peer round at the garage. They’ve impounded the cars to inspect; Wall had a lot of access to them, and it’s not improbable he tampered or added more bugs to them. “Hm.”

“Cab?” John prompts, feeling for his phone.

Sherlock considers the run from the middle of Berkshire to the middle of London. “Expensive,” he comments. John grins.

“Yes. Very. Then again, we were promised double the fee.”

_____  
_____

 

“About 6 months ago,” John says, picking another pair of champagne flute off of the tray and passing one to the woman he’s talking to. His wedding ring flashes in the candlelight. “We had a lovely engagement, then just a quiet family wedding in Scotland.”

“Oh, how charming. I do like the highlands, don’t you, dear?”

“Yes, very pleasant, asides from the midges.” The man eyes John, who smiles and discretely bumps Molly’s hip, who hastens to smile too.

“We didn’t go near the midges,” she says, glancing at John and then hurriedly tipping champagne into her mouth so she doesn’t have to talk any more. Behind the man’s back, Sherlock nods at John.

“Oh, excuse us. I think my business partner wants a word. Alice?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Me. Nice to meet you,” Molly manages, and gratefully shoves a hand through the loop of John’s elbow and lets him hustle her away. As they weave through the crowd, Molly having to hitch up the trailing end of her ballgown, she whispers, “John this is awful, I can’t keep this up!”

“You’re doing ok,” John says. “Just… keep the talking to a minimum, that’s the main thing.”

“I can’t get used to wearing this ring. It itches,” she hisses at him as they rejoin Sherlock. John shrugs. He’s been wearing his own for months now and he hardly notices it anymore.

“Not them,” Sherlock says, indicating Anthea at his side with a slight incline of his head. She looks up temporarily from her phone and goes back to typing hurriedly. “I thought she might have it in her knickers but her medical records suggest it’s a UTI.”

“Nice,” John says, trying not to laugh. He eases into the space next to Sherlock, not touching too obviously. “Who next then?”

“Lady in the green wrap heading into the ladies.”

“One for us then,” Anthea says, locking her phone with a business like air and beckoning Molly off.

“Oh, am I really needed?” Molly asks, weary.

“Yes, of course,” Anthea says, cheerfully swarming Molly towards the bathrooms. “You’ve got a believably innocent face for a spy. People like talking to you. We’ll be back soon. Try and remember you’re straight until bedtime,” she adds under her breath.

“Only till bedtime?” John wants to know, raising an eyebrow.

“Mm,” Sherlock says. “Business perk- I got us adjoining rooms. For…midnight conference calls and all that.”

“Oh, and does your wife approve of you working all hours with me?”

“Well, that’s why we invited your wife. To keep her company.”

John clears his throat and feels the fizz of champagne bubbles in the back of his nose. “Blimey,” he says, under his voice. “Does Molly know that?”

“‘Alice’ knows what she likes,” Sherlock says. Out of sight against the wall, his hand finds the small of John’s back. “If anything, I’d say uh…”

“‘Athena’,” John prompts.

“Yes. Her,” Sherlock continues, stifling a chuckle. “Is in for a surprise.”

John considers this, until his imagination begins to run away with him and he has to shake his head to bring himself back to reality, not entirely with success. “When’s bedtime again?”

“Hm. When we’ve caught whoever’s stolen my idiot brother’s phone.”

John grins. “I bet you can’t find them before midnight.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and between the crinkling of his lower lids and the lowered brow, John catches the gleam and smoulder of something that still manages to make a hot shiver run down his spine. “Go on,” he challenges. “Find them. Sooner you do, the sooner…” He trails off and turns away, trying to cool his interest with freezing champagne.

Sherlock stands for a moment next to him, rigid, his eyes sweeping the room with sudden intensity. John waits, forgetting that he’s not supposed to be looking at Sherlock with such blatant interest.

“I’ve got four ideas,” Sherlock announces, snapping back to himself.

“Good,” John says. “Go and chase them.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Nope,” John says, putting his glass down and reaching up to loosen his bow tie. “I’ve had about six ideas of my own and I’m going upstairs. See you in…?”

“Five minutes,” Sherlock answers. Then pauses. “Fifteen,” he amends. “But only because I’ll have to find a toupee and talk to the police.”

John nods. “Fifteen minutes then.” The hall is devoid of company, and he pauses a stair or two higher than Sherlock. It’s been a year since they did anything as reckless as this double-bluff, and it’s almost too much fun. Sherlock’s certainly enjoying himself; swanning around in a new bespoke suit courtesy of a couple in London who considered it just a favour owed to deck them out in the best tailoring imaginable. John’s smile softens and, daringly, he breaks the ruse completely to lean in and kiss him, just once, just softly, and then lean back again.

Sherlock will solve the case in ten minutes and come and find him. Tomorrow, they’ll be back to their normal lives in Baker Street, squabbling over the washing up and making Mrs. Hudson blush, and getting on with all the general stuff of daily life that’s supposed to be the boring bit between cases.

John can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> THE END.


End file.
